


What Could I Do But Call You Home

by bluestalking, feverbeats



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 86,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19058296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestalking/pseuds/bluestalking, https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: Arthur is with the Cobbs, Eames is with Yusuf, and they don't even like each other that much. How do they get from point A to whatever point B is? Slow burn, people who don't understand their own feelings, and a romance in cities all over the world.





	1. 1.1 THE TIME THAT EAMES AND ARTHUR MEET

**Author's Note:**

> It's 2019 and here we are, posting the slowburn Arthur/Eames. Life is short! General warnings for explicit sex and an emotionally abusive relationship. The lazy playlist for this fic is just Barenaked Ladies Are Me, everything but Peterborough and the Kawarthas, because that song isn't very good. 
> 
> Why are the chapters named so weirdly? Because we wrote it completely out of order over the course of 12 Google docs and every chapter is now named for what order it was originally written in. In case you ever really wanted to read a fic in the most confusing way possible, here is the key!
> 
> We are posting chapter by chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Dom and Mal Cobb call Eames up to ask him if he’d mind coming to the States to be a murderer. 

They’re doing under-the-table work for a case being handled by--they don’t hand out an acronym, but certainly some agency on at least the federal level. The work is under-the-table because they’re trying to pry memories out of a traumatized key witness, and if and when the case gets to court, evidence harvested from dreams won’t be admissible. Nonetheless, they want Eames to play the killer and see what he can help them dig up.

Despite his general reservations about governments and Cobbs, Eames says yes. 

He meets the Cobbs at a nice, but not extravagant, hotel bar. The Cobbs are already there when Eames arrives, seated in a circular booth, looking, as always, like a smooth pair of homicidal swans, completely and distressingly in tune with one another.

But they aren’t alone.

The man sitting next to Dominic is dressed, Eames thinks, a little like a waiter. He looks bored, and Eames immediately starts up a game with himself. Will the man be bright or not so bright? Eames's money is on the latter. Will he have some terribly modern name like Tanner? He's young enough to. What sort of accent will he have?

"Afternoon, all," Eames says. He offers the young man his hand. "Eames." Shame he has to use his real name, but he happened to use it when he started working with the Cobbs a year ago, so there's no helping that. 

The young man’s eyes take a curious route up to Eames’s face, making a detour over to first one Cobb and then the other before sliding up Eames’s front and finally reaching his eyes. By that time, his hand has made its slow way out to grasp Eames’s. 

“Arthur,” he says. He doesn’t smile.

No immediate tells. Eames sets a mental countdown for five minutes and promises to know this Arthur's life story by then.

"I didn't realize this was a four-man job," he says.

“Don’t worry about Arthur,” Dom says. 

“Or do,” Mal says with a smile that’s slightly haunted around the edges. “He’ll catch you by surprise.”

Arthur doesn’t react to either of them. He raises his glass to his lips--whiskey? Brandy? Eames can’t smell it--and says, “Take a seat.”

Eames does, impressed. Someone who can hold his own with the Cobbs, clearly. And one thing Eames _can_ tell is that this isn't just someone they've picked up for the job. He's a friend. Body language.

"I'll have whatever you're having, by the way," he tells Arthur.

“That takes a lot on faith,” Arthur says. 

Eames chuckles. "Consider it my way of getting to know you." He's not going to drink it, of course, but at least it'll answer his question. Up close, he can see that Arthur's a little older than he initially thought.

Arthur twists slightly, looking for waitstaff, but Mal sighs, blustery. “I’ll go,” she says, with sing-song in her voice. She gets up before anyone can object. “They might give it to me for free, anyway.”

Dom smiles after her, then turns to Eames and says, “Don’t worry if you haven’t put something together, yet, we want all the details right and precision is more important than speed.”

As always, Eames is a little offended by everything Dom says. Is he not a professional? Is he not the best in the business? "Oh, I'm sure I can cobble something together," he says, shooting Arthur a wink. What will Arthur make of a lazy bastard who's prepared to do a sloppy job?

Nothing pleasant. Arthur’s eyebrows twitch just slightly downward and he rotates his glass halfway around between his hands. Interestingly, Arthur doesn’t look away when he frowns. It’s almost like a challenge.

Eames feels a little flare of excitement. Not so simple after all, this one. He turns to Dom, ignoring Arthur deliberately. "Does he have a function, or is he just window dressing?"

“That’s not very nice,” Dom says, but he doesn’t seem bothered. “Arthur’s a recent recruit into our world. Taking to it well, though. He’s got a cool head and an eye for details.” He tilts his head back to tip the dregs of what is probably a gin and tonic down his throat.

"I like details, too," Eames says to Arthur. He considering playing a little of his obnoxious Sherlock Holmes game where he tells Arthur what he's figured out about him but the truth is, he hasn't figured out much. "What did you do before this?"

“Suffer from insomnia,” Arthur says, deadpan.

Eames grins. "Well-played." In his head, he's thinking, _What a prick._

“What about you?” Arthur says. He looks uninterested in everything around him, but here he is, asking questions anyway. “Did something drive you into this line of work?”

Dom makes an impatient noise, but when Eames checks on him, he’s just watching Mal, flirting at the bar.

"I got bored of dealing drugs," Eames says. Arthur seems awfully comfortable. How long has he known the Cobbs?

Arthur snorts, watching Dom watch Mal.

“I’ll go,” he says. “Maybe she forgot my order.” He doesn’t say it like he thinks that’s the case.

“No,” Dom says sharply. “What for? She’s just talking to the man.”

“Whatever you say,” Arthur says, and leans back against the booth.

Eames raises his eyebrows as he watches this interaction. Oh, they're _very_ familiar. Is Arthur a side piece of Mal's? That'd be surprising, but not unbelievable.

"Where are you from, originally?" Eames asks Arthur, eyes still on Dom.

“You know, I’m not spectacular at small talk,” Arthur says. “Please don’t take it personally, but I think we’re here to discuss business.”

“After drinks,” Dom says. “Upstairs. Not here.”

"I'll have to resign myself to just gazing at you silently," Eames says. That won't be a problem. Arthur is quite lovely, for a dull little bastard.

Mal chooses that moment to break from her conversation at the bar, unfold herself, and return to the table. She sets a glass down in front of Eames before sliding back into the booth next to Dom. Now that it’s closer, Eames knows from the smell it’s bourbon.

Mal says, “When you’re finished, Eames, we can go upstairs and talk business. But how was your trip out?”

"Solitary," Eames says, swirling his drink. He wishes now that he hadn't ordered it, although it was minorly informative. "Did you all come together?"

Dom looks irritated. "Oh, that's right, you don't drink. Why did you even order one?"

"You did come together, then?" Eames asks.

"Yes," Dom says.

Eames gives the drink a gentle push toward Arthur. A very _close_ friend, at any rate. "Let me guess where you're from, if you won't say," he tells Arthur. "Top two guesses are Hawaii and Minnesota."

“No,” says Arthur. He still hasn’t smiled once, not even a partial smile this entire time.

Eames wonders what would happen if he slapped Arthur. "You can have my drink," he says.

“Fine,” Arthur says. He reaches out for and snags the glass, then puts it to his mouth. He doesn’t put it down until it’s empty. He squeezes his eyes shut for a couple of seconds, and then says, “All right, we can talk business now, can’t we?”

Mal puts her hand over his wrist, pinning it lightly to the table. “You’ll regret that so much, darling,” she says.

“We’ll see,” Arthur tells her. Mal laughs and gets up.

_Ah_. Well, that answers the question of whether he's Mal's. But that's not the whole picture, surely? It doesn't explain how possessive Dom's being towards him.

Eames gets up casually and waits until they're all walking toward the stairs to trip Arthur. He trips him into Dom.

Arthur falls against Dom’s back, and Dom twists around to catch him by the elbows.

“There you are,” Dom says. “You regret it already.” He looks straight into Arthur’s face, and for a moment, everyone freezes where they are. Mal, ahead of them all, looks amused.

Arthur doesn’t tell Dom that it’s Eames who tripped him up. He says, “It should teach me to accept drinks from strange men, I guess.”

Dom looks back at Eames. “And I wouldn’t have thought he was your type to begin with.”

Arthur doesn’t tell Dom whether he agrees.

Eames feels a little shaken up, swept away in the Cobbs' intensity. It's one reason he doesn't like working with them. But this is a new and alarming element. How long have they had this lover? And how on earth does he manage, caught between the two of them?

"I'm everyone's type," Eames says lightly, a little late. And it's true he can be, if he wants, at least at first. Although it's quite possible that Arthur doesn't have a type and is just trying to cling onto two people more interesting than he is. Or maybe he's not dull after all.

Arthur extricates himself from Dom’s grip.

“Never say always,” he says, and meets Mal at the door, where she’s letting them in.

Arthur is horrible, Eames decides. Then again, he's also been horrible, so fair's fair. He wonders for a wild moment if they'll ask him to have a foursome. He'd have to hurl himself out the window. He follows them into the suite and makes himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, fiddling with a pack of cards.

It’s Arthur who locks the door behind them and Arthur who makes sure the blinds are drawn, while Mal and Dom sit themselves beautifully down on pieces of furniture. They don’t really leave a place for him.

Mal says, “Come sit here,” and gestures at the floor by her legs. Arthur leans against the window, through the thick curtain, and remains standing.

Eames’s stomach turns over. No, he doesn't like working with the Cobbs. He decides to extend an olive branch to this quiet, stubborn young man.

"What's your area of expertise?" he asks. Maybe Arthur likes talking shop.

But, damn him, Dom Cobb is the one who answers. “I told you, right? He’s our point man. He keeps one eye around the corner for us.” And he sweeps from that right into the business they’re there to talk about, and by the time they’ve got all the details hashed out, Eames doesn’t know a thing more about Arthur or what he’s doing with the Cobbs.

Eames says goodbye to everyone with a promise to meet tomorrow and leaves with a bad taste in his mouth.


	2. 1.3 COBBS CIRCLE RUDELYE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: explicit sex

The Kayla Montgomery job lasts about two weeks. The second they’re dismissed at the end, Eames gets up and leaves with barely a goodbye.

Twenty minutes after that, Arthur and Mal and Dom are scouring the hotel suite for misplaced belongings. They fly out in four hours. Most of Arthur’s things are in the attached second bedroom of the suite--he’s spent many of his nights sardined into the queen bed with Dom and Mal, and a few alone, on the other side. He throws his belongings into his bags without regard for neatness. When he’s sure he has discovered everything, he brings it all into Dom and Mal’s room for company and folding.

Mal is all buzzing and fluttering with energy, as she always is after a job. "Well?" she demands, spinning on Arthur as he's just finished smoothing out the items in his suitcase. "Tell me everything." She's fond of demands like this--immediate, energetic, without any context.

Arthur smiles at her, zipping up his bag. “What everything?” he says.

"How do you like our Mr. Eames?" she asks teasingly.

“Ah,” Arthur says. He contemplates the answer to that; isn’t sure he has one. “But you didn’t bring him in just to find out how I’d like him. He did the job, didn’t he? I always like that.”

"He always does the job," she agrees, not answering the question.

"I thought you two would butt heads," Dom adds.

“Maybe a little,” Arthur acknowledges. Eames spends a lot of energy on proving that he knows people better than they know themselves. Arthur doesn’t need that. He knows himself very well, and he’s not altogether fond of sharing. Especially not with people who make a game out of invasiveness.

“He’s pushy,” he adds. 

"You need pushing," Mal says. She gives him a little shove. "To bring you out of your skin." She doesn't always get idioms quite right, or maybe that's what she means.

In any case, she’s right--that Eames pushes as well as being pushy. That he gets under Arthur’s skin. That’s why he’s not sure what he feels. Arthur does not like Eames’s cocksure attitude, especially not laced with over-attentiveness the way it is. But the work was good. They’ve worked with other people, since Arthur joined the Cobbs six months ago, but he hasn’t found most of those other people either so obnoxious or so stimulating. And every time they broke apart, between sessions, Arthur could feel the echo of where Eames had been. For some reason, he doesn’t entirely want to admit that to Mal or Dom.

He doesn’t realize he hasn’t answered until someone says something.

"Our little Arthur is daydreaming about him," Mal says smugly. Always the possessive, with her. It slides a needle into Arthur’s heart and makes him warm, shakes him up. Forget the echoes of Eames. Mal has Arthur on a thread, and it might as well be a chain for how unbreakable it is, or it might as well be nothing at all, because Arthur finds walking away from her unimaginable.

"He was kind of a pain in the ass," Dom says, shaking him out of his reverie, and for a second Arthur isn't sure if he means him or Eames. "Ordering your drink," Dom adds.

Yes. Arthur still doesn’t know what that was about.

“Does he ever drink?” he asks. 

"No," Dom says. "Or at least he pretends he doesn't. He pretends a lot of things. He's lucky he's good at his job."

"Which is pretending," Mal agrees.

Arthur doesn’t doubt that even when he’s wearing his own face, Eames is thoroughly deceitful. Arthur’s impression of him is probably a little messed up by seeing Eames more in the guise of a murderer he isn’t than as even a mask of himself. By the end, though, Arthur found himself trusting the difference between Eames as the murderer and Eames the forger. There might have been more lies than truth in the forger, but even so, Arthur finds him...bearable. And he doesn’t have the worst instincts about people.

“I don’t think he’s _that_ bad,” he says.

Mal laughs and claps her hands, as if she's surprised and delighted.

"Good," Dom says. "Because he's the best forger out there. Almost as good at what he does as you are at what you do."

So there was a test Arthur didn’t see coming. _What would you have done if I didn’t like him?_ he wonders. He doesn’t ask that.

“What do I do that I’m so good at?” he asks instead. He doesn’t reach out for Dom, but his skin prickles. The prickle is an invitation for touch, one that Dom can’t see, and Arthur doesn’t do anything to make it visible. He hangs on a few seconds, though.

Dom doesn't reach out, but Mal does. She takes Arthur's chin in her hand, firmly but delicately, and says, "Let me show you what you are so good at."

Dom gives a raspy little chuckle and drops the bag he was packing.

Arthur takes a second to decide whether to say anything--six months isn’t that long, there are still bounds to overstep after six months. But Mal’s eyes are so laughingly bright.

“Is that it? You want to bolster my ego? Or are you reminding me not to roam?” he says, joking.

"I'd hope you didn't need reminders," Dom says, looking at Arthur so seriously it's almost funny, except the look makes Arthur feel weak.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

"Of course he wouldn't," Mal tells Dom, hitting Arthur in the shoulder. She slows down and turns to him, regarding him like he's prey. It’s exhilarating, being under her eye.

“No, no,” Dom says. It’s more like _naw, naw._ “I guess he wouldn’t. You would, though, wouldn’t you, Mal? You’d love to think about him running off on us.”

Arthur’s breath catches. In a few words, the air in the room has shifted to something hotter and sharper. He stands very still, Mal’s hands on him, Mal and Dom watching each other with an intensity he can bask in like the heat from a wood fire.

"I do think of it," Mal says. "Et ça me brise le coeur. You don't want to break my heart, do you, Arthur?" She digs her nails in his shoulder and kisses him. She laughs suddenly, still half kissing him. "Dom, come here. Show him why he doesn't run away."

Dom stalks over, with his steady gaze.

“You know what she’s thinking of,” he says. “She’s thinking of you with his hands on you instead of ours.” Arthur half-blinks and shifts where he stands.

“She’s thinking of what a whore you’ll look like,” Dom says (Arthur’s heart jumps in his chest), “with your pants on the floor and his hands around your neck.”

Arthur chooses not to react. Dom could do next to nothing and get under Arthur’s skin--Arthur’s just as susceptible as anybody--but he doesn’t like to give way just like that. Dom and Mal bait. He steps around the trap and waits, hungry, for the one he doesn’t see in time.

“But I wouldn’t,” he points out evenly.

“Does it matter?” Dom says. “Mal is thinking about it already, and now you are, too. If you weren’t before, that is.”

Arthur can’t help but picture it. He swallows, like it’ll clear Eames’s invisible hands away.

"You'd like him inside you," Mal says, tugging Arthur's hair playfully, but hard. Arthur makes an involuntary noise, neck taut. "And he was looking at you that way. Like he was already inside."

“Mal,” Arthur says roughly, a fish hooked on her grip in his hair. Dom gets behind him and jerks him back by the hips.

“Is that what you want to believe, huh?” he murmurs into Arthur’s ear. His hands creep up Arthur’s shirt and pry open the buttons. “You want to know that while you’re being a good boy, a man who barely knows you is imagining you impaled on his cock?” 

Arthur leans his head back against Dom’s collarbone and groans. He’s not comfortable with this. He doesn’t like to think that Eames was looking at him that way, he doesn’t want to run off anywhere, he doesn’t want to fuck Eames and he doesn’t love Mal and Dom dragging him through the sordid mud--but he’s caught between them, and their touch and their voices steal the will out of him. They burn all the arguments away. 

Mal trails her hand down Arthur's chest and then stops suddenly and tears his shirt the rest of the way open. The buttons, he thinks absently, are everywhere.

"If I told you I wanted to see that, you would do it," she says, her voice lilting and dangerous. "You would let him strip you and take you raw."

Dom’s hands wrap around Arthur’s biceps and squeeze tight.

“Get his pants off, sweetheart,” he says roughly. Dom’s voice rumbles through Arthur’s ribs from behind. He tries to think of anything in the world to say, but he’s weak-kneed and wordless.

“Speechless?” Dom says more softly, to Arthur. “Well, don’t you worry about talking.”

"I have a use for your mouth," Mal says. She kisses him, open-mouthed and obscene. "Not this," she whispers.

“Yeah?” Arthur says.

“How’s that, Mal?” Dom asks, while Arthur is still trying to catch his breath. One of Dom’s hands snakes down to fumble with Arthur’s fly. He doesn’t ever ask Mal anything a second time. Arthur rests his hands on Dom’s moving arms as Dom yanks the zipper down. “You want him on you while I fuck him?”

The image--Arthur on his knees with his face between Mal’s legs, Dom jerking Arthur’s whole body forward in time with his thrusts--hits Arthur like a slap. He makes a noise of protest.

“What?” Dom demands.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” Arthur says, looking straight into Mal’s eyes. Hurt her, or disappoint her. That might be worse.

"Hurt me?" Mal demands. "Sweet little Arthur, how can you worry about that?" She kisses him and bites his lip hard enough that he can taste blood. She pulls back and looks him in the eye. "I want to see Dom ruin you."

Arthur begins to shake in their hands.

“Lie down, Mal,” Dom says. “You first. Before he gets too sloppy.” 

“Better,” Arthur mutters. He likes to do a good job, and he hates to do a bad one. He hates to be made to do any less than his best.

“You like that?” Cobb whispers, pressing close. “Come on, pretty, take your clothes off. I’ve got you.”

“Yes _sir,”_ Arthur says under his breath.

Mal makes a tiny, sighing, _mm_ noise and lies down on the bed. She draws her brilliantly blue dress up slowly, exposing her legs, and slips out of her panties. She doesn't kick her shoes off. "Come here, my little one," she says. "Come here and play with me." She says it so seriously.

Dom catches Arthur’s face and gently turns him around into a slow, deep kiss. When he pulls back, he says, “There we go. Now, clothes. I want you ready for me the second Mal comes.”

“Right,” Arthur says. Dom makes him _dizzy._ Arthur gets undressed and climbs up after Mal.

"Don't touch with anything but your mouth," Mal says. "I want to make it hard on you. You're so good at everything, you need a handicap." She shrugs at him, and her rumpled dress shimmers.

Arthur grins at her. “All right,” he says.

“Oh, no, we won’t leave it to willpower,” Dom says. There’s a slithering noise and a tap of metal against metal. Arthur looks back to see Dom’s belt in his hand.

“Arms back,” Dom says.

“Oh, I don’t think,” says Arthur.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be looking out for you,” Dom says. “I promise.”

Arthur crosses his wrists behind his back. Dom cinches them together. 

Mal watches like a cat, her eyes darting between them. She gives Dom a private little look. "I was picturing you doing this," she tells Arthur. "It was hard to work, almost."

“Mal,” Arthur says unevenly, “we were investigating a murder.”

"Yes," Mal concedes. "But you can't let it depress you. You'd be depressed all the time."

“He can’t help it,” Dom says. “He was a bonafide good cop.”

"I always forget." She doesn't really, Arthur thinks. She brings it up a lot. She seems to think it's funny, but then again, she seems to think most things are funny. "Come here, officer."

“Detective,” he says. “Ex.” Then Dom grabs him by the back of the neck and says, “You’re getting a little distracted.” It’s a low whisper that travels right down Dom’s arm into Arthur’s spine. Arthur swallows a noise and bends on his knees to kiss up Mal’s inner thigh. It’s hard to get the angle right. 

Mal shivers and laughs. "Nobody else is so attentive. Not even Dominic." Arthur doesn't have to glance up to see that they're sharing one of those psychic looks again.

He drops his face between Mal’s legs and breathes hot air against her.

She shudders and opens her legs further, sliding her dress up and out of the way. She gets her hands in his hair, and he tries not to think about how he'll have to tame it again before they leave. Her fingers feel too incredible against his scalp.

One of Dom’s hands presses against Arthur’s back above his bound wrists. Arthur’s muscles stretch.

“Go on,” Dom says. “Make her feel good.”

Arthur’s thoughts scatter, and he shuts his eyes for a second, just to get them together again. Mal is straining slightly underneath him. He shivers and hunches in, swiping his tongue up her slit and burning when she moans. 

“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.” Her hands tighten in his hair, and he sucks and licks and bites until her hands are shaking. By the time she’s dripping wet and panting above him, his stomach aches with holding himself in place and he’s desperately hard. If Dom fucks him, he’s going to be a weak wreck before they even start. He concentrates on Mal, though, pressing his tongue inside her and humming low so she can feel it go straight into her body.

She says something under her breath in French, and then louder. Arthur knows French, but he still has no idea. Her hands tighten in his hair and she's pulling his mouth against her even closer, rubbing against him. A few more seconds and she cries out, riding out her orgasm with her hands fisted in his hair, and not letting go until she's done.

Arthur is shaken up and pleased and blinking away white spots in his vision. His muscles are screaming and his mouth tastes of Mal. 

Cobb steps past him and sits on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around Mal and murmuring to her. She pulls her legs out from around Arthur and tucks herself up to Dom, murmuring back. Arthur shuts his eyes and practices counting and breathing at the same time.

Dom finally says, “All right, Arthur. I didn’t forget about you.” Before Arthur gets his eyes open, Dom is pushing him onto his back. Arthur tries to land easily on his arms, and mostly manages. Dom and Mal look down at him. He almost laughs at their faces, punch-drunk.

Dom has an almost business-like way of fucking. He leans in and gives Arthur's thigh a slap. Not hard, just like he's sending a horse out of the gate. "You liked doing that for her, huh?" he asks.

“You know I did,” Arthur tells him, and has to clear his throat.

"Yeah, I can see how hard you are," Dom says, apparently satisfied. He kisses Arthur roughly, his hand brushing Arthur's cock. He lingers over the kiss more than usual, and Arthur realizes that he can probably taste Mal.

She says, sounding richly amused, “A little me in there, is there?”

Arthur’s breath stutters out of him, into Dom’s mouth. His arms, pinned behind his back, pull against the belt.

Dom spreads Arthur's legs as far as they'll go, knocking them apart and looking at him hungrily. "Mal, is there lube in my bag? I don't think he can wait."

“Ye-es,” Mal says. Arthur has his eyes locked on Dom, but he feels her slide off the bed and get to her feet. There’s the sound of her digging through a bag, and then she puts the bottle in Dom’s hand. Puts it there, but doesn’t let go. 

“Remember what I said,” she tells Dom in a purr that’s almost a growl. “ _Ruin.”_

Arthur breaks out in a sweat.

Dom grunts and squeezes Mal's hand. "Love you." For a second, Arthur feels like he doesn't even exist. But then Dom's hands are on him and both their eyes are on him again.

"Don't move," Dom says, unnecessarily. He pushes Arthur's legs back until they're almost over his head, slicks a finger, and pushes it inside Arthur. He's not gentle. Arthur gasps, and fights the urge to thrash.

Dom pins Arthur with one hand splayed on his chest while he fucks him with his fingers. He keeps glancing at Mal, checking in. Every time he does, he twists his fingers. Mal watches for a minute, then creeps back onto the bed. She puts her hands on Arthur’s ankles and bears down.

“Let me hold him open for you,” she murmurs. Dom tenses, and Arthur gives a yelp that stutters into a groan. Every part of him is uncomfortable and overloaded, and he wants more so badly it hurts. He whispers, “Please, please, please,” under his breath, trying not to sob.

Dom makes a pleased sound and pulls his fingers out. "You want it?" Before Arthur can answer, he pushes his cock inside, uncomfortably fast. Then he's holding Arthur down with both hands on his shoulders and fucking him hard and raw. "Is this how you like him, Mal?" he pants. "Sobbing and begging for my dick?"

“ _Yes,”_ Mal breathes.

Their eyes are on each other, and Arthur, underneath them, is dragged against the blankets feeling like he’s about to break into pieces. Fireworks are going off in his brain. His whole body is wincing and shuddering and begging for something to hang onto. When he squeezes his eyes shut, just for a second, he feels tears leak between his lashes.

"Oh, shit, yes, cry," Dom says, his voice rising. "Oh, fuck, yes." His thrusts are uneven, and his cock feels impossibly thick. His fingers are like vices on Arthur's shoulders.

Arthur chokes and open his eyes, blurry and wet. “Please--please-- _please_ ,” he begs. His fingers dig into the blankets underneath him. His arms spike with pain every time Dom drives into him. He’s about to break down--

Mal reaches down and swipes a finger up the length of his cock. 

Everything turns electric and then _dissolves,_ Arthur coming over his own stomach, making noises he tries not to hear because they’re loud and animal and desperate.

Dom groans and keeps fucking Arthur, even when Arthur goes limp under him. After another thirty seconds, Mal slips around to kiss him, and then he comes deep inside Arthur, hips slamming against him. Then he collapses on top of him and only moves at Mal's gentle but insistent urging that they get Arthur untied.

He can barely move on his own, by then, but Mal and Dom turn him to his side and untie his wrists and then gently unfold him.

“You were very pretty,” Mal says to him, admiringly. “You did a very good job.”

Arthur, still dazed, tries not to feel like a pet dog.

“Shall we get you cleaned up?” Mal asks, cradling one of his hands in both of her own. “There’s time.” She laughs. “And we can’t bring you on the plane like this.”

"Wake me up when you're out of the shower," Dom mutters into the pillow. He always falls asleep immediately afterwards. "You were great."

They don’t tease him about Eames after that. They don’t mention Eames at all, until the next time they need him for something. He slips almost entirely out of Arthur’s mind.


	3. 1.2 ONE WHERE EAMES HAS DEVELOPED CERTAIN OPINIONS AND YUSUF MUST LISTEN TO THEM

Yusuf flat-out will never work with the Cobbs, that is what he thinks. A quiet life, providing services needed (if not all legal), is all he wants. Getting up to half of what Eames does is well outside his interests, and getting involved with people like _that_ is unthinkable. He isn’t sure why Eames does it. Except that he is bad with money.

Probably it is because he is so bad with money. 

At any rate, all Yusuf knows about the Cobbs can be neatly packaged into a firm conviction that no matter how the job goes, Eames will come back funny. Eames is in the States for three weeks, and when he comes back to Mombasa, he is very funny. It is not a good joke.

“Come on,” Yusuf says as soon as Eames appears in their doorway, baggage still in hand. “Let’s get you a drink.”

"Water," Eames says mournfully. It's very unclear if he's being dramatic on purpose or because he can't help it. He focuses on Yusuf. "One stiff water. Neat."

“Good, ice is disgusting,” Yusuf says, patting him on the back. “Put down your bags, Eames! Would you like here-water, or water from out there?” He waves a hand at the outside world, encouragingly. _He_ has been wanting a drink.

"Here water is fine." Eames doesn't put down his bags. He's looking around with a pensive expression.

“Eames,” Yusuf says tenderly. He takes first one bag and then the other out of Eames’s hands and puts them on the floor. “You didn’t come all the way home to stand there like a statue, did you? Sit down and let me get you something.”

Eames sighs and collapses into a chair. He still looks a million miles away. "They've got a friend," he says. "The Cobbs, a boyfriend."

“Oh,” says Yusuf cautiously. This doesn’t sound like something he will be happy to have learned about. “That’s nice, isn’t it.” He goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle of water. Hopefully _cold_ is not too close to _iced_.

"No," Eames says. He sounds very sour about it. "It's not nice. He's like a bloody store-window mannequin. Only ruder."

“Hmm,” Yusuf says, noncommittal. He puts the bottle into Eames’s hand and takes a seat at the other side of the tiny wooden table. “Listen, you can’t worry too much about people like that. They’ll do what they please. As long as the job went well I say good riddance, don’t you think?”

"Did I mention that he's supernaturally beautiful?" Eames asks. He takes a sip of the water. "Missed you, by the way."

“Oh, yes, I can see that,” Yusuf says reproachfully. He tries not to take it too hard, but the supernaturally beautiful window mannequin, who has Eames in his mental clutches even after a twenty-two hour flight, is not the first sign he’s had that things are going downhill--or, at least, are failing to go uphill.

"I don't like the look of it," Eames says, possibly unrelated to anything. "They bat him back and forth like a toy mouse."

Yusuf stifles a sigh. He _is_ going to hear about this, and Eames will go ahead and be angrily fixated. He wonders if Eames wants to sleep with this fellow yet, or if that is still to come.

“Does this--” He stops, and interrupts himself. “Does this person have a name?”

"Oh, Arthur," Eames says, in such an aggressively off-hand manner that he's clearly been thinking about it all day.

“Maybe this Arthur fellow likes that kind of thing,” he suggests. “Anyway, I don’t see how it’s your problem.”

Eames drinks more water and doesn't say anything. Yusuf is beginning to think he's diffused the situation. Then Eames says, "I can't figure him out, that's all."

“Mm,” Yusuf says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Can a man not get a kiss hello before hearing all about a hateful stranger with a name like a butler?

Eames gives him that mind-reading look he's so good at (and which is probably the reason he's so frustrated with not being able to figure Arthur out). "How _are_ you?"

“Oh, me, I’m all right,” Yusuf says. “It’s been very productive here without you.” He manages not to wince. He sounds jealous to his own ears.

"I know you love being productive," Eames says. He reaches across the table and grabs Yusuf's hand. "I'm sorry. Traveling makes me horrible."

“Yes,” Yusuf agrees. He pats Eames’s hand with his free one. “That’s okay. Tell me about this Arthur. What do you hate about him so much?”

"He's inscrutable," Eames says without pausing to think. Possibly he spent every minute of his flight making a list of Arthur's bad qualities. "And I think he might be funny, but he won't let on."

“Well, the Cobbs aren’t funny,” Yusuf says. Not that he has ever heard, anyway. People in their business talk, and what they say about the Cobbs is never that they’re funny.

"No," Eames agrees heartily. "No, and that's what troubles me. What's he doing with them? I just don't like mysteries, that's all." That's clearly not _all_.

“Sounds to me like you know what he’s doing with them,” Yusuf points out. _Why do you care?_ he could ask, but Eames might give away the truth, and Yusuf is soft enough not to need the jab of being told someone hateful is more interesting than he is.

"But _why?_ " Eames demands. "And where did they dig him up? Is he some sort of army man? Career criminal? Escort?"

All right, that’s interesting even to Yusuf. “Three weeks and you couldn’t work it out?” he asks.

"He's very tight-lipped," Eames says, defensive. "He won't answer questions and he doesn't talk about himself. And he doesn't seem like their kind of people. He's good, though. Good at the work." He gives the little head-bob he reserves for fellow professionals.

But Yusuf already knows that. Eames wouldn’t be so interested in an incompetent.

“So what is it?” he asks. “You’re concerned for his welfare or you just hate not being able to crack somebody?” Either of those, he thinks, would be bearable.

"Both," Eames says thoughtfully. "I had fun, though. He's a lot of fun to needle."

“Well, at least you had a good time, then,” Yusuf says. It doesn’t mean anything. Yusuf doesn’t usually speak without meaning, but, he admits to himself, this feels like a blow. Maybe Eames doesn’t know it, but Yusuf does. “Listen, you should sleep. Do you want me to come to bed with you?”

"Ah," Eames says, starting to get up. "I'd thought I might--well--" He always gets prickly after a long trip.

It is, Yusuf allows, frustrating.

“You look tired enough to wander into the sea and drown,” he says. “But suit yourself.”

Eames chuckles and sits back down. "I could use a shower," he says. "Then I can sleep. Possibly with something else in between."

“That sounds nice,” Yusuf says. “Although if you pass out in the middle I will be very unhappy.”

Eames finishes off the water and gives Yusuf a fiendish look. "No promises."

“Hmm,” Yusuf says. “But absolutely not before you clean up.”

Eames groans and trails away to use all of their hot water. He's gone a long time. When he emerges, he looks pink and ruffled, and much more present.

"Hullo," he says, smiling and meeting Yusuf's eyes.

Yusuf smiles back, pleased. Eames is a pretty man, and his attention, when he gives it properly, runs through Yusuf like electricity. 

“Come on,” he says, taking Eames’s hand. “Nice job on the towel. It will be much easier to get at you this way. You know you make it difficult sometimes.”

Eames makes a dismissive noise but doesn't have a retort. Instead, he grabs Yusuf's collar and kisses him with teeth.

Yusuf lets himself sink into his grip, gradually. He runs his hands up Eames’s warm, damp back, slipping his tongue past the teeth, making Eames shiver. It’s not that hard to get over the top of his defenses, and in a second it’s he who has Eames gasping into his mouth as he bears down.

“There you are,” he says softly. “Very good, very good.” He presses a thumb against Eames’s hip bone, where his skin is soft, and catches him under the jaw with his other hand. His jaw prickles with stubble. Yusuf curls the fingers of both his hands until his nails scrape.

“I think I’d better do this properly,” he suggests. “And maybe then you’ll sleep, hm?”

"I'm all yours," Eames says cheerfully.


	4. 2.7 ARTHUR LIKES EAMES FIRST TBQH

Arthur forgets about Eames, yes, but he remembers all his first impressions pretty quickly when Dom and Mal need a forger. Arthur is in the room while the two of them are discussing this. They come up with Eames’s name almost immediately, without Arthur’s input, but before either of them says Eames’s name Arthur is thinking it. When he hears his thoughts spoken out loud, he has to blink away the urge to jump and look guilty.

He’s not sure if he likes Eames or not, but he likes the idea of seeing him and finding out. He’s a weird blend of nice and rude, Eames, and Arthur is curious to know what portion of each is real. Anyway, Eames is good at the job.

Eames answers Dom's call and arrives the next day, looking significantly scruffier than last time. His shoes are even mismatched, for some reason. The first thing he says to Arthur is, "I was desperate for work, so don't flatter yourself." He's smiling when he says it, but who knows what that means.

“I’m not flattered,” Arthur says, which is all he can think of to say, in the moment. 

It’s a corporate gig and Eames looks horribly out of place in his messiness, inside this glass-and-steel high rise. Dom looks very unhappy about it, but he’s not unhappy in their presence for long. He says, “I’m going to introduce our employer to the idea of you, Eames. Why don’t you go clean up while I do that? Arthur, show him the bathroom.”

Arthur turns to Eames.

"Are you his butler now?" Eames inquires. "I'm perfectly clean, and I have no plans to shave."

“Maybe you want to see the bathroom anyway,” Arthur suggests.

“You look awful,” Dom says to Eames. “Do _something_.” 

Mal, very charmingly and very unhelpfully, laughs.

Eames looks down at himself ruefully. "Once I'm paid. That's when I'll do something. Until then, I'm afraid you'll all have to avert your eyes if I'm too painful to look at." He winks at Arthur.

Arthur has been hoping that the flirtation was a one-time deal. This part of Eames he doesn’t think he likes at all. He says, “If you’d called ahead we could have gotten you a makeover before someone could see you in a state of embarrassment.”

“Arthur,” Mal chides. He sends her a look to say he’s joking.

Eames smooths his shirt. "Some of us have a more professional set of priorities, Mr. Arthur." He gives Arthur a piercing look.

“Some of us aren’t that easy to bait,” Arthur says.

“I’m going,” Dom says, throwing a hand in the air. “Mal, come with?”

She gets up slowly. “I can tell we’re all going to get along wonderfully this time around,” she says, and goes out the door slightly ahead of Dom.

Eames waits until they're gone to turn to Arthur again. "Was that an order, do you think? Christ, she's intense!"

“She’s nice,” Arthur says, which is the least of it, and not always exactly true, but he does love her, and she does twist him into knots with her smile, and he doesn’t like anyone to speak of her badly.

Eames just raises his eyebrows. "So, we've established that you hate small talk. What am I supposed to say to you?" He doesn't make any move to find the bathroom.

“Say anything you want,” says Arthur, shrugging. There’s two sides to that coin--one, that he’s not particularly bothered by anything Eames might potentially say, and two, that he’s interested in what Eames will land on if he’s given free license. It’s not like Arthur has to answer anything he doesn’t want to.

Eames watches him for a minute. Then he says, "So, you're queer, yes?"

“Straight as an arrow,” Arthur says immediately, without a twitch.

"So you and Dominic are just friends, of course," Eames says. "I thought so, but I was just checking." He runs a hand over his chin. "How bad do I look?"

Arthur laughs without meaning to, actually at the first part, but he realizes as it comes out that it _seems_ to be about the second.

A negative emotion, possibly shame, flashes across Eames's face. "Well," he says. "If you heard the job I'd just come off, you wouldn't be judging. I'll tell you about it when you're older."

“Don’t wait for me to get haggard, I’ve got great genes,” says Arthur. So far, so good, anyway. Who the hell knows.

"And you're from where, again?" Eames shoots back.

“Hawaii,” says Arthur with a smile. The smile is real. There’s something genuinely comforting about sending this guy into a frenzy of not knowing as much as he wants to.

"Oh," Eames says, stopping short. "Yeah, I was going to guess that, actually. I've never been."

“You _did_ guess that,” Arthur says. “I’m not, though.”

Eames swears under his breath. "Are you in bloody witness protection or something?"

“It’s nothing personal,” Arthur says. And that’s ninety-five percent true, it’s just reflex and practice because when he lets out too much it gets dangerous, and besides, he feels better when he’s in control of what people know about him. The other five percent doesn’t trust Eames.

"That's fine," Eames says. "I'll stick to the weather. And actually, give me your tie. I need it for meeting this client."

“You should have brought your own,” Arthur points out. “You know, you could have bought a razor at about fifty different pharmacies around here. You want me to go buy you a razor?”

"I do actually have a few dollars in my bank account," Eames says mildly. "And I run my own errands. Just lend me yours. Or can't you bear not to look like a mannequin?"

Arthur resists a very brief urge to say, _If I had a razor in my pocket I would cut you with it._ It’s very, very brief. It’s not the kind of thing that Arthur thinks. Honestly, it’s kind of exciting. Although, mannequin? He could have done without that.

“It was just an offer,” he says.

"I'll tell you a secret," Eames says, leaning close. He smells, mysteriously, like something that must be aftershave. "This was deliberate. It's useful for people to underestimate me. But I don't imagine you have that problem, do you?"

Arthur considers the facts, something that he prides himself on doing well. The shoes really make the strongest argument for Eames’s telling the truth. Odd he would confess to Arthur, though. Arthur wouldn’t have thought Eames had any interest in impressing him.

He says, “Looking weak in front of a client is a problem for all of us, and Dom and Mal already have opinions about you. Save your efforts, next time?”

Eames just shrugs and smiles. "You know best, darling."

He’s doing it to be obnoxious--Arthur’s not stupid--but terribly, Arthur’s insides react to that _darling_ like Eames is someone wonderful.

“It’s Arthur,” Arthur says.

"First name or last name?" Eames asks.

“Not mister,” Arthur clarifies.

Eames nods, apparently pacified. "Nor for me." Which doesn't really tell Arthur anything.

“Noted,” he says. “Are you really going to leave yourself looking like this? What the hell are you trying to accomplish?”

"Like I said." Eames smirks at him. "I like being underestimated. It makes it easier to get what I want later."

“You’re going to get punched,” Arthur says. 

“Yes,” Eames agrees. “That’s a frequent feature. It’s all part of my method.”

Against his better judgment, Arthur is charmed.

“It’s shit,” he says.

Eames inclines his head. "Do you have many friends, Arthur?"

“I’ve got you,” Arthur says. He can’t help himself. He’s figured out by now that Eames likes goading him, but he doesn’t think Eames notices what’s happening when Arthur goads back.

Eames rewards him with a surprised chuckle. "If I'm your best claim to a friend, then I'd say my estimation of you was about accurate."

“You must be right,” Arthur says. “That’s your whole thing. It would be shame if you were bad at it.”

"Actually," Eames says, frowning, "you're harder to crack than most. At first I thought maybe there wasn't much there. Was I wrong?"

Arthur frowns. “Who the hell is going to answer that, _I didn’t think there was much there_?”

"What an answer. See, I can't tell." Eames grins at him. "So, how are the Cobbs to work for?" Not work _with_. Goading and goading. Arthur has a temper, but he’s hard to budge when he’s set himself against it. Eames is half annoyance and half challenge.

Arthur says, “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

"People stay," Eames says, and there's a bit of hesitation before he says it. Arthur has missed something, maybe. But it doesn’t matter.

He wonders if he should go back and correct Eames about his relationship with Dom. One choice or the other will be objectively more satisfying; Arthur can’t decide which one it will be.

“You’re either queer or a creep,” he says.

Eames laughs. "Why not both, mm?" He's giving Arthur an interested look now. Like he's actually paying attention to him.

“I’ll assume you are,” Arthur says. He straightens the ends of his sleeves and looks around to see if Dom and Mal are coming back.

"Looking for your saviors?" Eames asks. "Are you and Mallorie involved?" He says it in an offhand way, like he doesn't really expect an answer.

“You really want to know about my love life,” Arthur observes. They’re not coming yet. He turns around. “What do you think? Give me your best guess.”

Eames looks at him for a long moment. Then he says, "Late addition, full triangle, or it's meant to be. I imagine it doesn't work out that way in practice, though. They're obsessed with each other."

It’s a direct hit, but Eames is making assumptions about Arthur’s expectations. If Arthur were a little less astute and a little more needy, Eames’s words would hurt. In actual fact, Eames doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“I think everyone gets what they want,” he says. “I’m guessing you can’t say the same, or you wouldn’t be so hung up on what other people do in bed.”

"Oh," Eames says, "I have a beautiful girlfriend, actually. Want to see a picture?" Arthur doesn't, but he's already opening his wallet and showing him. The woman is blonde, probably about Eames's age, and wearing too much makeup.

“Felicitations,” Arthur says. Anything else he could say would be unfair to the lady, who hasn’t done anything to him and who, for all he knows, is real.

Eames bobs his head, apparently satisfied. "So do you lot get two hotel rooms? Three? One?"

“I think we’re done with this line of questioning,” Arthur tells him. Eames’s eyes are bright and attentive, like a hawk looking from on high for something to dive at. Arthur wants him to shave his deliberate stubble and stop acting like an ass. He’s still cute to look at, though, with all the hideous things he’s draped over himself. He reminds Arthur of a guy he didn’t date in his last career. Arthur wants him to keep talking.

"Fair," Eames agrees. "Christ, I need a nap. I haven't slept in about twenty-four hours."

“Lucky for you,” Arthur says, nodding at the door. Here come the Cobbs and, presumably, their current employer. Arthur turns to Eames. “You really should have cleaned up,” he says. “When your looks raise hell, I’m not going to be happy.”

The look Eames gives him almost makes him smile despite himself.


	5. 1.4 IN WHICH EAMES DOES NOT...HATE? ARTHUR?? AT ALL????

Despite his better judgment, Eames comes when beckoned by the Cobbs several times over the next six months. It might be horrified fascination and it might be money trouble. Who can say, really. In any case, he goes, and every time he goes, Arthur is still there. The whole situation remains spooky. Arthur remains difficult to get at. Eames continues to dislike him, no matter how good he is in the dreams.

In this instance, they want Eames because they need two teams. There are two different people to tackle and not a lot of time to do it in--one, an art collector, needs to be convinced that a valuable painting of questionable provenance needs to be disposed of. The other is a petty crook and government official who has gotten away with a clean record through various scummy means. He needs to feel compelled to buy the painting, so that he can get caught having bought it.

Eames is quite sure that he’s going to end up with Dom, and Arthur will be with Mal. He meets them in a cheap hotel room midway between their two targets, before they’ve picked up their spotters. When he arrives, Arthur seems to be having an argument with them both. The door is locked behind him, cursory hellos given, and Arthur says, “You two are a cohesive team. You know it. And I can watch Eames’s back just fine if we cover Vance.”

Eames is not deeply thrilled with this, but he can admit he's interested. Maybe this will be his chance to crack Arthur's code, or possibly to push him off a building and make it look like an accident.

"He can watch my back any day," he says smugly. The fake flirtation is the only thing that seems to get under Arthur's skin effectively, so he keeps doing it.

Arthur shoots him a look. “Careful, or I won’t be,” he says. 

Mal _tut-tut_ s and says, “Arthur, darling, this is why you can’t go with him.”

“I won’t let him get shot,” Arthur says sufferingly.

And he won't, either. Eames knows Arthur is a professional, if nothing else. "Nothing wrong?" he asks Mal, double-checking. There's still tension in the air. He'd hate to see the three of them fighting. He imagines it would be truly terrifying, Mal screaming and Dom huffing around and Arthur standing there like a block of wood. Not that he's wasting much time thinking about it.

“He has a point,” Dom says, as if it’s painful to say so, but he really is just that big of a guy.

“ _Thank_ you,” Arthur says.

Mal looks annoyed, but she just tilts her head in acquiescence. 

Arthur turns to Eames. “Nothing wrong,” he says. 

It's the first time Eames has seen Arthur wield any kind of power over the Cobbs. He loves it. Arthur seems to have gotten what he wanted just by being right, which Eames likes to see. He can respect that.

"In that case," he says, "I'm ready. If you shoot me, drinks are on you."

“That’s all right,” says Arthur. “I know you’re a cheap date.”

Eames laughs, not sure if he's just been insulted or bantered with. All in all, it's so much better than what he has been getting from Arthur, which is nothing.

"Then let's go be art thieves," he says.

~

Eames and Arthur are on team thief/official, which gives them a good forty-minute car ride to sit through before they will find out exactly what happens when they’re left to work together _alone_.

Eames puts his feet up on the dashboard and fights the urge to criticize Arthur's driving. If they're going to work together and impress the Cobbs, he's going to have to make an effort, too.

"Pretend I'm asking with no ulterior motive," he says. "What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?"

“My favorite flavor of ice cream is not having people’s feet all over my car,” Arthur says. Which is ludicrous. There’s almost no chance that it’s actually _his_ car.

Eames doesn't budge. Arthur is a dick. He's such a dick. He's the biggest dick Eames has ever met. He's such a big--

"How many inches are you?" Eames asks.

Arthur brakes hard enough to make Eames slither off the dash, causes some honking, accelerates again. “Jesus Christ,” he says.

"Or centimeters," Eames amends. "It's fine, I know you hate questions. I'm about six inches, myself. There, now we're sharing. Best friends." He hopes Arthur doesn't decide to drive them into oncoming traffic.

“Is this bonding?” Arthur asks. 

"With my friends?" Eames says. "Yes." It's a flat-out lie, but Arthur will probably buy it. He'd believe anything of Eames.

“It’s not my fault you don’t like me,” Arthur says. He takes a corner _far_ too quickly, and nearly murders a young pedestrian.

"I don't dislike you, I just think you're dull." Eames stopped thinking that after the first time they met.

“There’s a boost to my ego,” says Arthur. “But also not my fault. You’re too pushy.”

"I push because you don't give on your own," Eames says. He goes to put his feet up again and stops. "And because I want to get to know you."

“You know I might be inclined if you just left a little breathing room,” Arthur points out. “Or maybe I’m just private. Do you have to know everything about somebody to get to know what kind of person they are?”

"No," Eames says. He's watching Arthur now, as he drives. "But most people are a lot more obvious about what kind of person they are. You, as you said, are private."

“Literally the first thing you did when we met was try to knock me down in a hallway,” Arthur says. “Your methods of making friends need work.”

"You have no sense of humor!" Eames protests. "Most people can handle a little prodding." Truth be told, a lot of people don't like him when they first meet him. And he doesn't even trip all of them.

“I have a sense of humor,” Arthur says. “What I don’t have is a lot of patience for--you’re like a cat trying to get into a bag of food. It’s terrible. You’re terrible.”

Not a lot of people, however, tell him to his face that he's terrible.

"Ah," he says. "Well. Maybe I suspect the bag of food of being something worth having."

“What?” Arthur says, and it comes out in a few different parts, kind of a wobbling burble of surprise.

"I want to get to know you," Eames says patiently, "because I think you're likely worth knowing." Because Arthur is a dick and Arthur seems boring at first, but Eames has seen enough little flashes by now to know that there's more.

Arthur is quiet for a minute. Then he says, “Is that why you knocked me down in the hall? What are you, five years old and pulling girls’ pigtails?”

"Essentially," Eames says. "Look, I don't much care what you think of me. I didn't like you at first, and I'm not sure about you now, but I want to know you. Sorry if that offends." Is this going to become another one of his stupid crushes? God, he hopes not.

Arthur relaxes into his seat. “No,” he says. “That doesn’t bother me.” Eames has his mouth open to answer when Arthur adds, “Hell, maybe you’ll forget to hide something yourself. You know it’s hard not to get fed up with someone who’s ninety percent lies.”

Eames barks out a laugh. Not everyone calls him out on it. Most people don't even catch him at it. "Ninety-five percent," he says. "You probably missed some."

“I think _you_ do,” Arthur says. “But I’ll concede the point.”

Eames considers that a draw, personally. "The Cobbs don't know how lucky they are." He finds that he means it.

Arthur snorts. “ _The Cobbs,”_ he repeats.

"Mallorie and Dominic," Eames says sweetly. "Getting on, are you?"

“We do all right,” Arthur says.

"And I'm not allowed to ask questions," Eames says. He'd love to know where Arthur is living. How serious it all is. He hates not being able to put together all the puzzle pieces, or not being allowed to.

“You can ask,” Arthur says. “I just might not tell you anything because it’s none of your business.”

"Fair," Eames says. "Are they permanent fixtures in your life? Personal life or work life." He already knows the answer, he thinks, but he's curious about Arthur's opinion.

“What’s permanent?” Arthur says.

"Well, long-term," Eames amends. "I mean, quite clearly your relationship with them isn't the same as mine. But is it something you think you'll keep up with?" He isn't even entirely sure if Arthur likes them.

“Sure,” Arthur says. He’s frowning, thoughtful. “Yes. As long as they want.”

Which is what Eames thought. What a horrible way to think of yourself. "Leaving aside what you want," he says carefully, looking out the window. Arthur's facial expressions can be his own business for a minute.

“Let me worry about what I want,” Arthur says. “What are you so concerned about, anyway?”

"Oh, they get under my skin sometimes,” Eames says carelessly. Honestly, he's never met a couple as obsessed with each other as Mal and Dom. It seems like a hell of a thing for someone to be caught in the middle of.

“And yet,” says Arthur. “There are other people to work with, best forger in the business. If you’re that uncomfortable.”

_Uncomfortable_ is Arthur's word, but it's not the wrong one. Doubly so with Arthur around.

"I like working with them," Eames says, shrugging. "They're good. You're good. Where did you learn it?" Damn. Questions again.

Arthur seems to turn that one around a few times before he answers. “Them,” he says finally. “The dream parts, anyway.”

Which is a strange answer, and leads Eames to suspect military, which he was already thinking. "Their protege? Really?"

Arthur shrugs away his words with an, “Ugh. You make things sound so creepy.”

"Isn't it?" Rhetorical questions don't count as pushy, he tells himself. "I have to say, it creeps me out."

“I don’t think you do have to say,” Arthur says stiffly.

Eames doesn't know Arthur well enough yet to say, _I'm worried,_ especially when it's more instinct than anything. "Well. You can probably handle it. You're a competent fellow."

“So,” Arthur says, cutting him short, “let’s talk about your personal life, yeah?”

"Gladly," Eames says with grace. "I'm a family man. One wife, two kids. Six dogs."

Arthur sniffs, and it’s not until Eames looks at him closely that he realizes Arthur is actually angry.

"It's something I said," Eames offers.

“Sure, all right,” Arthur says. “Shut up a minute, I need to hear the GPS.” As far as Eames can tell, he’s been completely ignoring it up til now.

Eames shuts up and lets Arthur navigate. "Sorry," he says after a minute. "Keep it professional, then?" He finds that he doesn't want to be fighting with Arthur.

“Your bullshit is exhausting,” Arthur says. 

Eames doesn't know another way to be. "Fair," he says.

“So tell me if you’re seeing someone,” Arthur says.

"Yes," Eames says, startled into honesty. "A friend. In Mombasa." If they're still seeing each other. He never knows what to expect, each time he goes back, through no fault of Yusuf's.

“All right,” Arthur says. “That’s better.” He doesn’t ask for any details, not if it’s a man or a woman, not if it’s serious, not anything. Just that much seems to have satisfied him. He says, “Listen, I always feel better doing a rundown before the real deal, you know? We’re five minutes away from our spotter, do you mind just going through the job, start to finish?”

Eames gives him a huge, genuine smile. "Thank god. It's the only way I work, in ideal circumstances."

“Ideal is good,” Arthur says. He catches Eames’s eye and gives him a tiny, wicked smile. “Ideal proves me right.”

Eames is laughing too hard to really answer.


	6. 12.1 COBB AND EAMES FILL IN THE GAPS

A few jobs later, and Eames keeps coming back. On this job, sadly, he ends up paired with Dom Cobb. Arthur must have lost the argument this time. Eames realizes he's leaping to conclusions and being judgmental, but the Cobbs invite that kind of thing.

They're wrapping up the job, still waiting to rendezvous with Mal and Arthur, which leaves Eames and Cobb together at the hotel bar. If Eames had been paid, he'd be gone, but they're waiting for that, too.

"Buy you a drink?" Eames offers. In reality, he's feeling overheated and snappish, not in the mood to do anything for anyone, but he might as well hide that away.

Cobb gives him a once-over that clearly asks, _You’re solvent?_ and then says, “Celebrate, right? We’ll buy a bottle. The others can help us out when they turn up. What’s your poison?” He seems to willfully forget, every single time, that he’s never seen Eames drink.

"Bourbon," Eames says cheerfully. He wonders if Cobb remembers that it's Arthur's drink. He wonders what Cobb will do if he does remember.

“Nothing more specific?” Dom says, but he turns to the bartender without leaving time for a reply, and demands the bottle with a wad of cash. Was he carrying that around the whole time? Well, that’s bloody stupid, isn’t it?

Bottle in one hand, four cups with ice precariously clutched by their rims in the other, Cobb leads them to a booth.

Eames flings himself into the booth. He can't get Arthur out of his head. They're becoming--what, friends? Maybe not that, but at least on this job, their brief interactions were peppered with what Eames can accurately identify as jokes. He can't say any of that to Cobb, probably.

"How's Arthur?" he says instead, innocently.

Cobb frowns and slides a glass his way.

“What do you mean?” he asks. Eames has to wonder if he’d sound quite as mystified if the question was about his wife.

"You know, all that," Eames says, waving a hand and ignoring the glass. "Seems like it's been going on for a while." He doesn't know what he's trying to trap Cobb into saying.

Cobb’s frown disappears and he gets a smug little smile on his face. “Oh, you mean the two of us seeing him? Did you just figure it out? You know, we try not to be too in-your-face about that on the job.”

Eames has to fix his face very quickly to avoid bursting out laughing. "Oh, yeah," he says. "I picked up on it eventually, though. Well, I can see the appeal. He's got a clever side, hidden under all that stone-faced aggression." Eames is already several steps past that, well into liking Arthur, but let Cobb think he's dumb.

“He’s cute, huh?” Cobb said, apparently missing every point on Earth.

"Cute," Eames says. Is Arthur cute? Beyond the face? He's too adult to be cute. "He's talented. I'm sure you two appreciate that." Arthur, he thinks, would be horrified at what he's doing.

“Yeah,” Cobb says. “Yeah, he’s smart. I picked up on that the first time we met. You don’t expect a guy like that to be smart, but he was. Couldn’t let that go.” He takes a mean swig of bourbon and exhales.

Eames pours himself a glass and cups his hands around it. "A guy like that?" he echoes. In fairness, Eames hadn't expected Arthur to be smart either.

Cobb laughs. “I don’t think he’d appreciate it if I started telling you his whole damn history,” he says. “But yeah, he’s clever. Attentive. Good in bed. Good with the kids, too, if you ever need a babysitter.” He grins at Eames.

Something about that gets down inside Eames's chest and makes it ache. He can see Arthur being amazing with kids, and he's sure the Cobbs find him very convenient in a lot of ways.

"Well done, then," Eames says, lifting his glass.

Cobb tilts his glass Eames’s way, realizes it’s empty, and fills it again. 

“How about you?” he asks. “You seeing anyone these days? I can’t imagine you settling down.”

Eames considers, for a moment, telling Cobb the wife-and-six-dogs lie, but Cobb doesn't respond well to those things. "There's a chemist," he says.

“Convenient,” says Cobb, nodding.

"You might think," Eames says. "Anyway, that's been the most consistent." When they're in the same country. When they can stand each other.

“Well, convenient’s not the worst reason to see someone,” Cobb says. “Sounds to me like we’re both just practical men. Practical with eyes in our heads, maybe?” Cobb, suggestive is a whole new horror.

"Ha," Eames says weakly. "Well, your wife is certainly a catch." Not really where he wants to go with it, but he's off his game.

“There’s no better in the world,” Cobb says seriously.

Eames doesn't want to say anything else about Mal, because he doesn't know when it will be too much. He raises his full glass again. "To good partnerships, then."

Cobb clinks their glasses together. “To not letting the good ones get away from you.”

Eames takes a drink to hide his expression. What's a sip more or less? He'll stay sober and watch his back with Cobb.


	7. 1.6 ARTHUR TALKS TO YUSUF MAYBE (TO FIND EAMES)

Yusuf doesn't expect anyone to bother him for a while. Eames is off on a job (he won't say what sort), and most of Yusuf's customers have worked out how to keep themselves healthy enough to avoid a crisis. The only real danger is the police, he supposes, but they don't usually come to his house. In fact, he makes sure he lives far enough away from anywhere he does work that nobody could easily find him.

So it's a surprise when someone does.

The man at his door is white, young, and slick. He’s wearing long sleeves, and doesn’t seem to be phased by the ninety degree spring heat. He cannot probably help looking a little phased by the rain; he doesn’t have an umbrella.

The first thing that really registers, more strongly than the rest of this, is that the man doesn’t say hello. He says, “I’m looking for Eames.”

Yusuf swears, in his head. He's going to get shot, and in his own damn doorway. Thanks, Eames. "I'm sorry," he says pleasantly, thickening his accent a little, "who?"

“I have a job for him,” the man says, and Yusuf sees that he is sweating after all, as well as rained on. He hopes it’s just the weather. Desperation is always a very bad sign.

It could be a trap, but then again, all sorts of disreputable people have jobs for Eames. The question is why the hell he would give this as his address when he's barely ever here.

"Well," Yusuf says. "Come in out of the rain, anyway."

“You’re sure?” the man asks, looking genuinely surprised.

"Yes," Yusuf says, "but I will shoot you if I feel you're going to try anything." He may be a lot more cautious than Eames, but he's also a lot more personable than ninety percent of the people in this field. If he turned scum away, he wouldn't have a job. The problem is, this young man doesn't exactly look like scum.

“That’s fair,” the young man says. He comes into the house and shuts the door politely behind him.

“So,” he says, “Eames?”

"And you are?" Yusuf asks pointedly.

“My name is Arthur,” says the stranger. “I work with the Cobbs.”

_Oh._ "Of course!" Yusuf says after a second. Store mannequin indeed. "Why am I not surprised? And he gave this as his home address? That took some balls."

Arthur discreetly doesn’t ask what took balls about it. Then, Arthur probably doesn’t know that Yusuf knows that Arthur has been sleeping with his boyfriend. If he did, he might even have the decency to blush.

He doesn’t blush.

It is conceivable that Eames hasn’t mentioned Yusuf and their relationship. That would be within the realm of possibility. 

Arthur says, “He didn’t. He said a friend in Mombasa. I came to Mombasa.”

"A friend!" Yusuf says indignantly. Not today he bloody isn't. "Well, I can see you want him pretty badly, but he's not here."

“Yeah, I was getting that impression,” Arthur says, shaking a few drops of water off his cuffs. “But I was hoping you might know where he’d headed.”

"Probably chasing you all over the globe, which I believe is his new hobby," Yusuf says with uncharacteristic acidity. Well. When you meet the man your boyfriend is cheating on you with, you're allowed.

“You mean Mr. and Mrs. Cobb,” Arthur says. “They line the jobs up. They bring him in. Not this one, though, this one is all me.”

It would be significantly easier if Arthur was unpleasant. But he doesn't seem to be, whatever Eames says. "He'll take it, then," Yusuf says. "Trust me. But he's overseas. Somewhere in Belgium." Yusuf knows exactly where.

As soon as the words _somewhere in Belgium_ leave Yusuf’s lips, a little thing--a tiny thing really, and nothing that is any of Yusuf’s business--happens to Arthur’s expression. It dips. It doesn’t dip far, or long, just enough to make him look desperately tired for about a half a second. Then he’s back. He says, “Well, that’s a start.”

Yusuf sighs. Why does he have to be so nice to people? This boy is almost certainly fucking Eames, and Yusuf wants to help him. "Tea," he says. "Have some tea.” Then-- “He was staying at the Marriott in Brussels, if you must know. He's still in Brussels, but at a much worse hotel now."

Arthur laughs. “That makes sense. A Marriott is so normal,” he says.

"Eames is a very normal person, in many ways," Yusuf says. He lies, cheats, and doesn't think it's a problem. That's normal. It was about Yusuf's expectation.

“Listen,” Arthur says. “Thank you. I wouldn’t mind that tea. It’s a hell of a flight. I can’t say I’m too excited to get right back on a plane. What’s Brussels from here? Another sixteen hours?”

"A little less," Yusuf says. "Tell me, do you enjoy working with him?" He starts making the tea, almost automatically.

“Eames?” says Arthur. He gives the table a hard stare before sitting down at one of the places. “Well, I hope if I didn’t, I’d be looking for someone else.”

"Or perhaps the Cobbs requested him," Yusuf suggests. Arthur seems too nice for Eames or the Cobbs, honestly. He doesn't want to sound like Eames, but it is a bit of a mystery.

“No,” Arthur says. He stops fussing in his seat. “Not for this. I’m sorry, it’s Yusuf, right?”

"Yes. And I don't play silly games like Eames, so that is my real name. My first name."

Arthur smiles. He looks like he’s spent a full twenty-four hours getting here, which he must have, if Yusuf’s guess about where the Cobbs are is at all accurate. But he smiles like a very regular human being, tired or not. 

“Arthur’s mine,” he says.

"I can't see at all why he finds you frustrating," Yusuf says. "Except that he likes to make things complicated for himself."

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking uncertainly at him.

"He doesn't hate you," Yusuf says. "Although, honestly, who cares what he thinks? I don't care." He rifles through his tea selection and picks one. "In fact, he's far too interested in you. Poor you."

“He’s not,” Arthur says. “They just keep needing him. I’ll be lucky if he says yes, on my own. It’s all right either way.”

Yusuf tries and fails to be unaware that forty hours of travel is an awful lot to be so noncommittal over. They _must_ be fucking. He fiddles with a mug and doesn't look at Arthur. 

Finally, he says, "Well! You're certainly the hot topic around here." It may gracefully do the job of making Arthur feel better and reminding him that Eames has a home.

Arthur clears his throat and says, “You’re in the business or--?”

Yusuf nods. "I manufacture Somnacin, among other things."

“But not into the guns and capers side of things, I’m guessing,” Arthur says.

"No," Yusuf says firmly. "Chemists get enough shit, believe me. We don't have to go looking for it. But you look built for danger, yes?" Arthur mostly looks tired, to be honest.

“I don’t mind it,” Arthur says. “And the job fits my skill set. And anyway, there’s good company.” Yusuf experiences a spark of jealousy before realizing that Arthur is probably talking about the Cobbs. Eugh.

"You know," Yusuf says, "Eames will probably stay put in Brussels. If you wanted to spend the night in Mombasa." He looks half dead, is all. And Yusuf feels some kinship with other people who've drifted into Eames's orbit.

“Oh, no,” Arthur says, holding his hands up. “No, that’s all right. I know this is a crazy way to track someone down, I’m sorry to bother you at all.”

The Cobbs, Yusuf thinks, know how to reach Eames without nearly this much effort. Why didn’t they help Arthur?

"He said you were rude," Yusuf says. "He's an idiot." What if, he thinks, Arthur doesn't have anywhere else to go _except_ gallivanting after Eames? "Look, I don't sleep nights anyway. And there's only a very small chance we'll be horribly attacked."

Arthur hesitates. 

"In a lot of ways," Yusuf says firmly, "finding me is better than finding Eames. Here. Tea."

Arthur takes the cup and says, “Thank you,” automatically, and then says, “I’ll--check for flights. If there’s nothing until tomorrow maybe I’ll take you up on it. But you really don’t have to.”

"It's just a bed," Yusuf says. He doesn't know how to explain that he's the kind of person who offers beds anyway, and that having something in common makes it even more likely. He's not sure exactly how much they do have Eames in common. At the moment, it doesn't matter all that much. Arthur is soaking wet, looking untethered and sad. Yusuf has tea and a bed. That part isn't complicated.

“All right,” Arthur says. His hands tighten around the mug of tea. “All right.”


	8. 7.4 LET’S JUST INTERRUPT THIS HERE FOR A SECOND AND GO TO THAT CITY THAT STARTS WITH B, JFC

Eames is in Brussels, and it's half a vacation and half an escape from people who might be looking for him. He's working, off and on, but he's mostly lying low. The gambling here isn't what it could be. The food isn't, either.

He's staying in a nice hotel when he first arrives, but that gets very quickly downgraded when he loses money at the two gambling tables he has managed to find. He takes pictures of the place he's staying, to indicate the rats, and he sends them to Yusuf. _in case i die_ , he texts.

He's been there several weeks and is just starting to settle in when he gets the first real surprise of his whole trip.

The desk calls up to his room and says he has a guest--which could be any number of terrible people--but when he asks who it is, they say, “An ‘Arthur’?”

Eames's heart jolts, although not entirely unpleasantly. How could Arthur know he was here? This is a friendly visit, isn't it? With his run of luck, maybe not. "Send him up," he says. Then he carefully takes his gun out of the drawer and waits. The idea that he could shoot Arthur is of course ludicrous, but he has to at least pretend to protect himself.

There’s a knock on the door a minute or two later. When Eames opens the door, it really is Arthur, and there really is no one else. Not even one Cobb. Arthur looks like someone has lightly beaten him up and tumble dried him.

"Well, hello," Eames says, immediately feeling bad about the handgun. "Come in." How did Arthur _find_ him? At this moment, he's not entirely willing to put aside the idea that Arthur has some sort of magical power.

Arthur looks at the gun, shakes his head, and comes inside. He shuts the door behind himself.

“Hello, Eames,” he says.

"Sorry," Eames says, putting the gun down carefully on the dresser. "Couldn't be sure. Look, not to sound rude, but what on earth are you doing here?"

“Got a job offer,” Arthur says. “Thought it would go better with backup.”

"Ah," Eames says. "And there wasn't backup available in the country?" Where the hell are the Cobbs? Unless they're all here, and it's just an extraordinary coincidence.

“Oh, no, the job’s here,” says Arthur. “And you’re here. You’ll do, right?” Eames hears it as _You’ll do it, right?_ for half a second before he realizes it’s something more insulting.

"While I'm deeply flattered that you somehow stalked me through time and space," Eames says, "I'd like to hear the job details first." It's flattering, though. To have his talents recognized on occasion, even if it is by a robotic monster in perpetual fancy dress.

“Sure,” Arthur says. He moves around, like he’s making a beeline for the room’s only chair, but then he sees it and bounces off slowly in another direction. 

“It’s nothing fancy,” he says. “Or--it’s a little fancy. You’ll have to tell me if you’re up for it. There’s this musician--composer. He got in an accident last year halfway through a symphony. He had the rest in his head, apparently, but he didn’t write it down. He lost it in the accident. He wants it back.”

"Oh," Eames says, enchanted. That's exactly the sort of thing he likes. And it's elegant and kind, both things he suspects Arthur of being. He has to check, though. "The Cobbs aren't available? Not that I can't do a better job than them."

“They’ve got another thing going on,” Arthur says. “Didn’t need three people. This one came to me through the wires and I thought I’d try it out.” He nods to himself. “Better with you, I think. I don’t go solo a lot.”

Eames turns the words over in his head and can't make them come up so they're not a compliment. "Hm," he says. "So you thought of me. And tracked me down here. Somehow."

“I wanted to know who was working in town and you didn’t make yourself invisible,” Arthur says. “Honestly, Eames, your bets stink and anyone could smell them.”

Well, there goes anything positive he might have been feeling toward Arthur.

"How sweet," he says. "Despite that simply scathing commentary, the job sounds fascinating. How's the pay?" If Arthur already thinks so poorly of him, he might as well ask.

“You won’t make your fortune,” Arthur says. “But I’ll have plenty left after air fare, let’s start there.”

"Deal," Eames says. "On one condition: we're doing this job together. You're not the leader. We're a team."

Arthur swallows down his first response before Eames can even get a sense of what it was going to be. He says to Eames, “Sure, whatever you want.”

"That said," Eames adds, "if we're in a crisis, I'll defer to you." He has his pride, but not a lot of it, and he's not stupid. Arthur is Cobb's point man for a reason.

Arthur slowly smiles. “The creativity is up to you,” he says.

"We're in agreement, then," Eames says. "Here, let's get out of this wretched room. Have you eaten?" He wonders how long Arthur has been here.

“I think I might--Yeah, sure, I could go for something,” Arthur says.

_Jetlag_ ," Eames decides. "Wonderful. Your treat." He grabs his jacket and leads Arthur out the door. It's going to bother him forever if he doesn't find out how Arthur found him. If Arthur can, other people can, which defeats the purpose of this little jaunt.

Arthur follows him into the street, stifling a yawn.

"I take it you came here first," Eames says, fishing. He makes his way toward a restaurant he's been wanting to try but wasn't able to afford, after the first few days of gambling.

“I haven’t been anywhere first,” Arthur says obliquely. “I’ve been bouncing from plane to plane for a week. Honestly, I don’t believe in solid ground anymore.”

"All work?" Eames says. He doesn't actually know where Arthur's home turf is, if he has any. In America somewhere, and presumably somewhere near the Cobbs, but that's all he knows.

“ _Eames,_ you know I don’t have fun,” Arthur says.

"Were you a child soldier?" Eames asks.

“Yes, that’s it,” Arthur says. 

"I'm trying to imagine what sort of trauma could have drained you of fun so thoroughly," Eames says. "Here's the place. It's got a Michelin star, I think."

“My treat,” Arthur says. “You know, half the time it’s disheartening when you take the jokes seriously.”

"I don't think you make jokes," Eames says. Although truth be told, he can't always tell. Arthur's deadpan is flawless.

“Which, the other half of the time, is hilarious,” Arthur says.

Eames fights a smile and loses. "I don't think your sense of humor is appreciated. Except, perhaps, by the Cobbs."

“Who else do you even know that I know, Eames?” Arthur says, and holds open the restaurant door.

Eames ducks through. God, what a gentleman. "Perhaps you don't know anyone else. That would also prove my point."

“This is really why I picked you,” Arthur says.

"Because you have no other friends?" Eames asks, momentarily derailed.

“Sure,” Arthur says. “Or because you’re incredibly easy to tease.”

Eames feels a little pocket of warmth in his chest as they're shown to their seats. He came to Brussels because he didn't want to be found, but this is all right, actually.

Arthur drops the conversation until they’ve ordered, then says, “Everything here is going to be tiny stacks of food nobody recognizes on weird-shaped plates, isn’t it?”

"Yes," Eames says happily. "It will be an experience, and then you can say you've had at least one."

“Experience?” Arthur says, like he hasn’t heard right.

"Yes," Eames says.

Arthur looks at him, and _keeps_ looking at him, until Eames wants to burst out and demand to know what he’s thinking. Then Arthur laughs. Eames didn’t actually know Arthur _could_ laugh like that, out loud and for more than a second. 

The corners of Eames's mouth turn up without him meaning for them to. "Well, look at that." Arthur should get away from the Cobbs more often, possibly.

They’re offered wine, which Arthur turns down after looking sideways at Eames. He turns his glass of unbearably expensive mineral water in a circle on the table and says, “What’s in Brussels, anyway? Whatever you’re doing here, I guess you have time enough for me.”

It sounds oddly self-deprecating. "Just a couple of jobs," Eames says. "Making some money, losing some money. I'm trying to stay out of the US for a bit. It's not quite big enough for me to avoid some problems that've arisen."

Arthur says, “I didn’t know how often you were in the US to begin with. It’s not home, is it?”

Ah yes, of course Arthur doesn't know the Problem With England. "I haven't exactly got a home base," Eames says, "but the US has been the closest thing, for a while. There's a lot going on there, dream-wise." He doesn't mention Mombasa.

“That’s true,” Arthur says. He sips his water and frowns at it before putting it back down. “You’d think for that price tag they could have picked minerals that taste nice.” He shrugs, and says, “Sorry to hear you’re having troubles.”

"Oh, I always have trouble," Eames says with a wave of his hand. "Don't let that scare you off, though." Whatever else he thinks about Arthur, he doesn't think he's the type to be intimidated easily. In the back of his head, he's thinking, _Minerals that taste nice._

“Don’t you worry,” Arthur says. He takes another swig of water with a wince, and puts it back on the table. “Do you think they’ll bring breadsticks or something? I’m actually pretty hungry. I mean, if I have a choice between an experience and a trough, at this stage I’m leaning towards the trough.”

Eames laughs. "You're funny," he says. He doesn't mean for it to come out as startled as all that. "I mean, sorry, but you are. It keeps catching me by surprise." More to him than the suits, which Eames should really know by now.

“Hungry,” Arthur corrects forlornly. “Anyway I don’t know why you’re surprised. I wasn’t ever not funny.”

"You just have a very, very dry sense of humor," Eames suggests. "Unlike myself." And unlike the Cobbs, who have no sense of humor between them.

“You’re a regular clown,” Arthur says. He hides another yawn behind the back of his hand.

Eames looks at Arthur's tired eyes and the line of his jaw when he yawns. It's a shame he's so pretty. It complicates matters.

"Here come the breadsticks," he informs Arthur.

“Thank the lord,” Arthur says.


	9. 7.4B ARTHUR IN BRUSSELS

Arthur thinks that they’re probably about halfway through this job. They’ve been in their composer’s head twice, and he thinks the third time will do the charm, if they just walk into it right. They’ll plan their final drop soon--later this afternoon, maybe--but first they need a break from the dream and the plan and their client, also, who’s grateful and impatient and extremely talkative.

Arthur hasn’t quite worked up the nerve to move Eames into a nicer hotel than his rat-trap, but he keeps inviting him back to his own much nicer hotel, where his room has a full-sized sofa and a TV that works (if you like TV) and a bed that Arthur fully expects Eames to, at some point, make jokes about.

And room service. It has that, too.

Eames makes plans to order liberally from room service and sits on the edges of Arthur's bed while he does so. "You could fit maximum four lovers in here at once, if you wanted," Eames says. Ah, there it is. "Christ, this place must have cost you."

It cost plenty, but Arthur isn’t paying, and he hadn’t cooled down enough by the time he left Kenya to downgrade. He thought he might deserve a nice place to stay, since home isn’t an option. If anyone objects to that--well, they could call him and let him come home, couldn’t they.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

"I'm not worried," Eames says. "So, we're doing well, don't you think? I've got a good feeling about this one." This is something Eames says on almost every job.

Arthur lies himself out on the couch and peers at the room service menu. Thank god he almost knows French.

“Planning later,” he says. “This is a break.” He glances up. “It is going well, though.”

And what the hell is he going to do when it’s over and he doesn’t have any reason to follow Eames around anymore? This was the only thing he’d thought of, and Dom and Mal haven’t called.

"It is shop talk to say how shockingly pleasant it is to work with you?" Eames asks.

Arthur doesn’t let it show in his face, the way his heart catches itself mid-beat. He doesn’t want Eames to know--Eames, who doesn’t quite like him--that Arthur is like this about him. That it matters, Eames liking him even a little. There’s nothing for Arthur here, and he knows that. 

(If he really knew that, why did he come here?) 

He says, “Nice working with you, as well.”

"Ah, robot Arthur," Eames says fondly. "Listen, what's your last name? It might be helpful for some of my jokes. Unless Arthur is your last name."

“What do you do, standup? The last thing I want to be is one of your bits,” Arthur says. “And I don’t think I’m handing any information to you--I don’t think you’re exactly about to reciprocate.”

Eames winces. "Ah. Wounding, but entirely fair. Please don't think it's personal."

“I’m sure you mean plenty of other things personally, just to make up for it,” Arthur says, although it doesn’t bother him, Eames’s prying and teasing. It makes him feel--hungry. Curious. Strangely at ease.

"Such as the remarks about your wardrobe or your robotic attitude," Eames agrees. "Although I must say the latter is improved when you're flying solo." There's just the hint of a question in there.

But that’s not a game Arthur will play. 

“Do you work with anyone in particular, usually?” he asks.

"No," Eames says. "I mean, I've got friends in the business, but I don't usually work with them. Fantastic way to keep friends."

“Well, as you’ve determined, work is the only way I know anybody,” Arthur says. “So I guess I’ll just have to keep my friends another way.”

Eames looks at him thoughtfully. "Mm." He doesn't say anything for a moment. Then he says, "Well, I'd recommend not getting too involved with coworkers, but...."

“You don’t like Dom and Mal all that much, do you?” Arthur says curiously. “But you always come when they call-- _sorry,_ that’s not what I meant, I mean when they ask for you, you work with them.”

"Ah," Eames says. "Well, they've got a good reputation, haven't they? I mean, they're good at what they do. So're you. As a team, you're relatively unlikely to let me down or shoot me in the back. So there's that." It's not a very satisfying answer.

“Christ, Eames, answer a question for once. You never give anyone anything,” Arthur says. Not that he’s owed. But whatever he feels about Eames, he’s not so far gone that he can’t get annoyed.

"All right," Eames says. "I don't like them. But they're doing things nobody else is, and that's interesting. Besides, they've got you hanging around."

Arthur, flipping the menu back and forth, stills his hands.

“Well, you don’t like me much, either,” he says. “So I’ll just have to assume you’re a masochist.”

"Oh, you think I'm just in it for the hotel and the room service, do you?" Eames says loftily. "Typical. Assigning me ignoble motives."

At this point, Arthur isn’t sure what Eames is getting at, so he shuts his mouth and waits it out.

"Maybe you're my first work friend," Eames says after a moment.

“Hah,” says Arthur, while, internally, he wildly recalibrates.

"I warn you," Eames says, apparently oblivious, "Yusuf and I were almost work friends, and now we can't work together anymore. So we'd best tread carefully."

“As if I’m not constantly checking for my wallet already,” says Arthur. 

"Christ, you're cold," Eames mutters. "Anyhow, I'm sure I could find a more creative way to rob you, if I really wanted."

Goosebumps run up Arthur’s arms, and he thinks, it would be so easy. It would be so easy to reach over right now and kiss him, that part would be so easy no matter what happened next. God, it’s awful how much he wants to--but he can’t. Dom and Mal, he reminds himself. And Eames doesn’t want him.

At the least, he tells himself, as he’s been telling himself for months, don’t chase him away.

“Of course you could,” he says. “You’re ingenious.”

"You flatter me," Eames says, but he's watching Arthur's face curiously. He clears his throat. "Are you going to order, or are you going to play with that menu all night?"

Arthur sniffs. “I’m going to order,” he says. “And you can order too, but please stop getting everything on the menu. Eventually I _will_ run out of money.”

Not true, but while Dom and Mal are paying for his four-person bed, they’re not paying for Eames’s meals. He would feel too weird about that. 

"Don't worry, I've been winning at blackjack in my off hours," Eames confides. "I have a good feeling about it."

“I bet you usually do,” says Arthur.

Eames wrinkles his nose. "You think the worst of me. Well, I may be bad at gambling, but I'm good at a number of other things." He looks at Arthur levelly, and for someone who's bad at gambling, he has a great poker face.

Arthur thinks of home. Arthur thinks, _This is a stupid crush and it’s not worth indulging._ Arthur says, like a stupid person with a crush, “I’m sorry if I’m not allowing you to exercise your full range of abilities, Eames. I’ll just have to get us more exciting jobs.”

"You know," Eames says, shifting gears and suddenly looking very serious. "You should. I want a real challenge. I want to see what you can do. What we can do as a team. And that's not a come-on, that's because I really think you're exceptionally good. And I know I'm exceptionally good. And of course the Cobbs are good, but they're not here, are they?"

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. 

"I want to completely destroy a job with you," Eames says. "Because we can. Yeah?"

It’s not the same as Eames really liking him, but it’s so much more than Arthur was expecting.

He says, “Yeah, all right. If I’m free. I’ll give you a call.”

He tells himself he won’t be hunting down wild adventures for them while Dom and Mal aren’t paying attention. They’re usually paying attention, so it’s not like he’ll really have time for it, anyway.

He adds, “This job’s okay, though?”

"Oh, this job's lovely," Eames says, switching the intensity back off. "Especially with room service."

Arthur almost cracks a smile. He throws the menu at Eames. “Not every thing,” he reminds him.

"No," Eames agrees, watching Arthur's face. "But if they have lobster, I'm ordering that."

“Fair enough,” Arthur says.


	10. 9.14 STARTING "A FRESH" IN RAINFOREST

They’ve been in the jungle for two days, and Eames is starting to regret making a habit of working with the Cobbs.

The job is fairly straightforward: take a “who, me?” young executive with delusions of adventure on a dream trek through the wilds of the Amazon river basin, save him from certain death, get him to spill all the secrets of how his perfectly innocent law-breaking has been killing people, and report to the authorities. Obviously, there are a few risks involved. Also, the mark is a despicable combination of heartless and needy, and Eames, disguised as his best friend, is having to put up with quite a lot of him. And his name is Mark, which is almost an insult.

They’re making camp for the night--Cobb is explaining some kind of native medicine, patently an offensive act of bullshit, to Mark. Mal is cooking an exotic looking animal that Mark has “killed.” Mark is an exquisite shot in this dream.

Eames and Arthur are left to set up tents.

“Ready to save his life?” Arthur mutters to Eames. “You’re best friends, you know.”

Eames wrinkles his nose. Arthur was a lot more fun in Brussels. Here, with the Cobbs, he's behaving like a slightly unpleasant robot again. Except he keeps making little jokes.

"How badly are we fucked if I just let him die?" Eames says. "Don't tell anyone I asked you that."

“I will absolutely not tell anyone you asked me that,” Arthur says. “For the record, they’d probably just hire someone else. But I don’t think Mal and Dom would appreciate it. So stick to the plan, please.”

Robot. Eames rolls his eyes. "Well," he says, "Have you missed me? Or have you found some other roguish fellow to buy room service for?"

He’s been holding back getting personal up until now, which has put Arthur at his ease. Now Arthur gives him a quick, jumpy look, jabs a stake into the ground, and says, “My wallet hasn’t missed you at all.”

"You make a man feel like a prostitute," Eames says. He double-checks that Mal isn't listening. "Then again, I suppose a prostitute would be seeing a little more action."

Arthur says, without looking up, “No one’s going to pay money to sleep with someone who flirts like you.”

Eames opens his mouth. It stays open. That, he did not expect. Arthur looks so sleek and uptight and innocent, like he himself would never flirt in his life.

"Well," Eames manages, "would you prefer something more outrageous? Because I'm sure I could get us into mortal danger together. Maybe I'll save _your_ life."

“What’s the point?” Arthur says. “I’d know it was just a dream.” He pounds in a last stake and gets to his feet. It is _so_ strange to see him dressed for this, instead of like a rude, gun-toting penguin. Eames finds himself staring at Arthur's arms, which are, in fact, fairly muscular.

"If I sucked your dick in a dream, would that not count either?" Eames asks, throwing caution to the wind.

“For Chrissake, Eames,” Arthur says, after a second. “That’s not better.”

"So that's a no?" Eames asks. "No to dick-sucking, no to life-saving. What on earth do I get the man who has everything? Including a shockingly toned physique. Is that real? Did you embellish yourself a little?"

“I have a very active lifestyle,” says Arthur.

Eames laughs until everyone stares at him. "Right," he says. "Sometime you'll have to show me what that looks like."

Arthur gives him a look like he’s crazy, and then goes over to where Mal is cooking. If Eames didn’t know better, he’d say Arthur is running away.

Eames lets Arthur avoid him for a bit. He makes more excruciating small talk with Mark. Finally, he hands Mark off to Cobb and drifts back over to Arthur.

"I've worked it out," he says. "You're upset that I'm not my usual handsome self." He gestures at his forged identity.

Arthur, dedicated to his craft, is poring over maps that don’t mean a damn thing as if they mean a great deal. He looks up at Eames and sort of--freezes in place. He takes a quick look at Mal and Dom, currently absorbed by dealing with the idiot Mark. 

He says, “Well. It’s not your best look.”

The important thing, the _absolutely crucial thing_ about this, is that Jackson Winslow, Mark’s best friend, is an objectively and incredibly beautiful man. He has dark eyes and a chiseled jaw and he’s so tall. His hair is thick and curls slightly. He has a resonant voice. He smells good, even in the jungle. It makes no sense that he would even be friends with this Mark. He is too beautiful for it to make sense. 

And Arthur can just sit there with his fake maps, going, “It’s not your best look.”

"Oh," Eames says casually, although his mind is suddenly whining trying to understand what he's being told. "So you'd prefer a very poorly dressed Englishman who uses too much hair product?"

Arthur says, “He’s American,” which is possibly the rudest thing anyone has ever said to Eames.

"My God!" Eames says. "You are purely, truly awful. I only let you get away with it because you're so stunning." Which Arthur is, in his own way. Every bit as much as Jackson Winslow. And half of it's that he's handsome, but half is the way he lights up when he's happy about something.

“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, and nothing else.

Eames glances at Dom and Mal. They're not looking. "We're both very beautiful men at the moment, whatever you might think," he says. "It'd be a shame not to take advantage."

Arthur says, “You could lay off for five whole minutes. I think I actually _would_ pay you for that.”

"There's one good way to shut me up," Eames says. He doesn't look and see if Dom and Mal are watching, this time. He just leans in and kisses Arthur, too fast for Arthur to stop him. He puts one hand on the back of Arthur's head and one on his hip and and kisses him firmly on the mouth. He feels Arthur’s intake of breath, the little shiver that goes through him before Eames pulls away.

Arthur says, “Very funny,” in a voice that isn’t funny at all. 

"Ha ha," Eames agrees. His head is spinning. That was a nice kiss. For something that took Arthur by surprise, he kissed back in a surprisingly competent and charming manner.

Arthur shakes his head and looks back at his maps. “I should finish this,” he says, as if he’s actually doing something--which, again, he _is not_.

"If you're interested in more of that," Eames says in something approaching a normal voice, "you'll have to tear me away from Mark." And he retreats to pretend to focus on the mission.


	11. 9.16 HANG ON HANG ON HANG ON LET’S TRY THIS AGAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex!

The rainforest job is fun. They can’t say that about _too_ many jobs, but it is--exactly the kind of thing that takes all of their skills and shows them off nicely. At the end of the day, they’re a lot richer, and Arthur has managed not to betray himself to any of Eames’s absolutely insane flirtation. He and Mal and Dom are supposed to do a little sightseeing after the work is done, but as they’re heading back into the hotel, checking their bank accounts, they get a message from home that James has the flu.

Dom immediately books the first flight back. 

“I’ll go pack,” Arthur says, meaning for all of them, but Mal says, “You earned a little fun. Stay and enjoy it. You can tell us everything later.” She smiles, and Arthur melts. It’s not appropriate for the situation, just sheer reaction, and it makes him uncertain. 

He summons his wits and says, “I can’t just go off and party while James is sick. What if it’s serious? I mean, even if it’s _not…_ ” Even if he’s not, Arthur likes to be there when James or Phillippa don’t feel good. 

"That's why he has us," Dom says firmly. "He doesn't need an army."

"Besides, you fret," Mal says. "You fret and make the rest of us so worried." She touches his shoulder lightly. "It will be all right."

Arthur is acutely aware of Eames, standing right there, and for some reason Mal’s words make Eames’s presence uncomfortable.

“I don’t think it’s fretting,” he chides, as gently as he can. “It’s just taking care.”

"I promise James will still need you to take care in a few days," Mal says. "You needed this time."

Arthur looks at Dom. “Are you ganging up?” he asks.

"Consider yourself overruled," Dom says. "It's just the flu. We'll call when we get in."

“If you’re sure,” Arthur says. “Call me if he’s really sick?”

“I’ll need you if he’s really sick,” Mal says.

Then she and Dom are off to pack and dash, and it’s just Eames and Arthur in the lobby. 

They spend so much time lying to each other in lobbies.

"Well," Eames says. He jams his hands in his pockets and looks at Arthur. "I've still got my room for another three hours."

“Great,” says Arthur. “There are a lot of channels.”

The look Eames gives him is both gloriously irritated and practically has heat waves coming off it. "The hell with that. I want to find out if you're still interested in kissing me, now that I'm not beautiful."

Arthur says, “Don’t be disingenuous, Eames.”

"All right," Eames says, "how's this? I know you want to kiss me and I know I'm attractive, so let's stop messing about and let me get my hands on you."

Arthur feels the hairs rise on the backs of his arms. He shouldn’t say yes, there are so many reasons not to say yes. He says, “Which room’s yours?”

Eames gestures for him to follow. He's on the first floor, right down the hall. As soon as the door shuts behind them, Eames grabs Arthur's shoulders and hauls him bodily up against the wall. Arthur makes a noise, and reaches for him. This is all it takes, and Arthur is desperate for everything. He shouldn’t, but he is, so he has to take it now before it disappears.

Eames kisses him, hard and with teeth, but the way he's touching Arthur is so intimate and clever that it makes the kiss feel like something they're sharing rather than like an attack. Arthur lets himself fall into it, just a little, just enough that he can pretend they’re both feeling something real. His heart hurts, wanting it to be real, and he thrusts the feelings out of sight, as much as he can. His hands are all over Eames, and there’s no grace to it. He’s not in control.

Eames gets his hands under Arthur's shirt, and then, almost before Arthur has a chance to realize it's happening, he's getting Arthur out of the shirt and kicking it across the floor. He stops kissing Arthur long enough to lean down and bite his shoulder.

Arthur sags back against the wall with a groan, and fitfully tries to untuck Eames’s shirt from his pants.

Eames makes a noise of encouragement, untucks the shirt himself, and then presses against Arthur, sliding a knee between his legs. "Fuck," he mutters. He grabs Arthur's hair and rolls his hips against him.

This is so out of hand, but Arthur wanted it, he _wants_ it. This is all that he’s wanted for so damn long and it’s not enough, but he’s not going to ruin it by complaining or confessing or any other idiotic thing. He runs his hands all over Eames’s bare skin, pulls the buttons of his shirt open, does everything kissing and refuses to stop. He tries to hold back a little, all this time, but it’s hard. 

Eames, clearly unaware of anything Arthur's thinking, keeps kissing back, matching everything Arthur does with equal intensity. He only hesitates briefly at Arthur's belt, but then Arthur feels him shrug and keep going, undoing the belt and the button of Arthur's pants.

Arthur pushes his hands out of the way to reciprocate, fumbling at the zipper and panting for breath. “Come on, come on,” he mutters under his breath, and he only really hears it after he’s said it already.

Eames makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "Yeah," he whispers. He tugs Arthur's pants down off his hips a little and wraps his hand around Arthur's dick. It's awkward and all the angles are wrong, but Eames's skin feels like it's burning where it touches his.

Arthur swears, and scrambles to catch up--and then they’re pressed up to one another, skin hot and breathing hard, hands on each other’s cocks. _If I suck your dick in a dream, does it count?_ he can hear Eames asking, and god, he hopes he’s not dreaming. He feels so raw he can’t possibly keep his cool, but he tries. He tries. He leans in to kiss Eames and starts stroking him, and he doesn’t say anything like _You’re awful, I need you, I love you_. 

That would be so stupid.

It's not long before Eames's breath is ragged and uneven, but his hand on Arthur's cock is steady. He buries his face in Arthur's neck, but he almost immediately goes back to kissing him. "I want to see your eyes," he mutters into Arthur's mouth, hips moving faster.

Arthur moans, and makes himself look at Eames, just for a second, straight in the eye. Eames is staring back down at him, and it’s too much. It’s _so_ much. Arthur looks down, shaken, and Eames’s hand does something incredible. Arthur shouts and comes before he can even give a warning, and then he is bracing himself on shaking knees, trying not to stop touching Eames before he’s finished.

It doesn't take long. Soon Eames is biting back sounds as he comes, hips stuttering against Arthur. He slumps against Arthur so they're resting there, holding each other up. Eames breathing gradually slows until it's almost normal, and he says in a scratchy voice, "I told you we weren't going to watch TV."

“I guess not,” Arthur says. He stops holding Eames and hoists him up instead, and then starts looking around for a tissue. His shirt is halfway across the room.

Eames watches him quietly for a minute. Then he says, "Well, that was lovely. Call me next time you need a forger. Or what have you."

“Right,” says Arthur. “Good one.” He looks at himself in the full length bathroom mirror--he looks pretty put together, that’s good--and says, “I imagine you’re taking off. Probably to do something criminal. And petty.”

"Petty crime," Eames agrees cheerfully. "Unless you need company?"

Arthur would love that.

He says, “I think I’m all right, but thank you, Eames.”

"Ah," Eames says. "Well, next time, then."

Arthur shakes himself out of the cloud he’s stuck in and turns to Eames with a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m looking forward to that.”

"I actually found a job with you in mind," Eames says improbably. He still looks fully ruffled. "Could be four-person job, though."

“Yeah?” Arthur says. Keep your eyes on the ground. Or on his eyes. Not the rest of it. God, that was not enough.

Eames nods. "It'll be cold, though. I'll brief you over lunch, if you want to grab a bite."

Arthur feels the pull of guilt—he shouldn’t have done that, he shouldn’t be encouraging this, it isn’t fair to Dom and Mal and it _will not lead anywhere good._ But the options are to go with Eames or to be alone, pretending not to think about him.

“Sure,” says Arthur. “Lunch sounds fine. Got to check out first.”

"Perfect," Eames says, smoothing his shirt down. He claps Arthur on the shoulder on Arthur’s way out of the room, and his hand lingers a little.

As Arthur opens the door to his room he realizes exactly how little time has passed. Dom and Mal are still there, just grabbing their coats. Arthur tries not to be obvious about his heart attack.

"Arthur?" Dom says. "We were wondering where you were. We're headed out."

“Just talking to Eames,” Arthur says. “He’s, ah, looking into a job that might be good for one or all of us.”

“Oh?” says Mal, smiling sweetly.

“No details yet,” he says. Jesus Christ. Mal keeps smiling at him, and he leans to kiss her head. “Sure you don’t need me back just yet?”

"No," Dom says, oblivious as always. "There's no point dragging you back, too. Like we said, we'll call if we need you. But stay, enjoy the place."

“If you’re sure,” Arthur says.

“Sweet thing,” Mal says. She leans up to kiss him in just the same way he kissed her. “Take a little pleasure, my love.”

As soon as they’re truly gone, Arthur buries his face in his hands and makes a long anguished noise. 

He is a god damned disaster, and he’s not even really sorry. He puts a hand on his stomach and feels Eames’s hand there. What do you do? What do you do?

You get dressed and go to lunch.


	12. 9.17 EAMES THINKS AT LUNCH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE SEX!

Eames is starting to wonder if Arthur will really come to lunch with him when Arthur appears. He looks the same as he did before their little encounter, including just as tense. Maybe that's how things are for him. Maybe he can go through things and come out the other side and not feel any of it.

Eames knows better, though. Arthur is not a robot. No robot kisses like that.

Eames gives Arthur his brightest smile and says, "Ah, we haven't lost you. I know a nice place."

“Great,” says Arthur. “Lead on.”

Eames considers taking Arthur's arm, but why push it? He has no idea what this is for Arthur. He can still feels the Cobbs' presence as strongly as if they were following them down the street. Is Eames a homewrecker? Maybe. He doesn't think Arthur is going to let him wreck anything, and if he does, oh well. Good.

He takes Arthur to a little place with outdoor tables and a simple menu. Possibly this time it will impress Arthur. He's hard to impress. Probably Eames shouldn't have even asked him to lunch.

Arthur sits down across from him and thanks the server. “You said you have a job,” Arthur says, as soon as they’ve given their drinks order.

Oh good, this isn't a social lunch. Eames tries not to show any disappointment. "Right," he says. He launches into a description of the job, Arthur, Dom, and Mal's potential roles in it, and how much they'll all get paid. By the time he's done, they've ordered and received their food.

Arthur says, “I’ll let them know. It sounds good.”

"And now I'm banning job talk for the rest of lunch," Eames says. He raises his drink--a virgin daiquiri--to Arthur.

Arthur tilts his drink towards Eames with something almost approaching a smile. It’s a frozen margarita, which is very cute. Eames didn’t know he could even drink things like that.

“Are you staying in Santa Barbara?” Arthur says. “Or are you headed out? I guess I shouldn’t have assumed you were checking out.”

"I'm staying at least a few days," Eames says, "just not there. I've got friends here. I thought I'd spend a bit of this money." As long as he has his next job lined up, there's no shame in losing some of his money fast. He wonders if he could get Arthur drunk. Loosen him up again.

“Right,” Arthur says. “That sounds nice.” He frowns into his drink, turning it by the base. “You’re not going to mention that-- _that_ to anybody, are you?”

"It's a secret, is it?" Eames says cooly. Oh good. He is a homewrecker. (To say nothing of his own home, but that's a different matter with different expectations.)

Arthur surprises him by going a little pink. “I’m not saying I regret it,” he says. “I just appreciate a little privacy, Eames, that’s all.”

"Believe me," he says, "I know you like your privacy. It's fine, I don't know who I'd mention it to." Yusuf, maybe. Yusuf thinks Eames is already doing it. "Not the Cobbs, obviously."

Arthur manages to look ruffled while remaining perfectly still. “Don’t you worry about the Cobbs,” he says.

"Do they mind if you sleep with other people?" Eames asks.

“Don’t worry about that, either,” Arthur says. “It was all right, wasn’t it?”

"It was all right with _me_ ," Eames says, fighting with his lamb chop.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Then, then that’s all right. Don’t worry about the rest of it.” He _is_ smiling now, Eames can just catch the edge of it.

"I won't, then," Eames says. He sips his drink and smiles into it. Whatever else, he and Arthur are closer than they were a few hours ago. He's managed it.

“Have you been out here before?” Arthur says. It’s shockingly like small talk. “I guess if you have friends here, you probably have.”

"I have," Eames says. "I lived here for a year, and that's saying something. What's the longest you’ve lived anywhere?"

“How much time do you have to spend at home for it to count as _living_?” Arthur says. “Anyway. I’ve moved around plenty.”

Evasive, but a fair question. "Well, what's the longest you've paid rent on a place, then?" Eames asks. This speaks to a different quality, but it's equally interesting.

“Three years,” Arthur says, “which is all you’re getting about my finances. I’m just going to assume you never pay rent, even when some version of your name is on a lease.”

"Not _never_ ," Eames says, stung. If he thinks Arthur's a robot, Arthur thinks he's a scoundrel. "But not for very long, no."

Arthur frowns at him--maybe Eames is beneath him, maybe Eames’s hurt feelings are showing. Arthur says, “Work friends?”

"No," Eames says. "Generally not, in fact. I don't often mix business and pleasure." Let Arthur take what he will from that.

Whatever he’s thinking, it certainly doesn’t get by him. He’s giving Eames look; whatever it means, it looks slightly outraged.

"Well, consider yourself a special case," Eames offers.

The outrage slips into something cooler, and Arthur says, “No regrets?” lightly.

"None," Eames says. "I'd been aiming for that for a while, and I don't only mean on this job." Why not put that out there? It's not as if Arthur will.

Arthur says, “I figured that’s just what you do when merely shocking people doesn’t work so well anymore.”

"Work for well for what?" Eames says. "What do you imagine my end goal is? Because I assure you, I was just trying to have some sex." Does Arthur think he's some kind of monster? And if so, why sleep with him at all?

“Don’t pretend you don’t like throwing people off their game,” Arthur said. 

"I do," Eames agrees. "But I always thought it came across more flirtatious than sadistic." Maybe Arthur is awful at reading people. Or maybe Eames is just awful.

Arthur opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “It was nice,” he says. “Earlier.”

Is that--? Eames could swear Arthur actually _feels_ something about all this, if only Eames could get at it.

"Well, it was meant to be," he says. "You know, there's nothing stopping us from doing it again." And Eames would very much enjoy that.

“I guess not,” Arthur says. 

"If it was nice," Eames presses.

“I _said_ it was nice,” Arthur says. “What, do you want to make an appointment?”

"Most decidedly not," Eames says. Maybe they don't do the next job together. Maybe he'll never have to encounter Arthur's attitude again in his life.

“Sorry,” says Arthur. “I’m not trying to--it was nice. Yeah, I’d do it again.”

Eames smiles and relaxes, settling back into his meal. Nice. "Well, then. I'm glad you decided to give it a try."

“I was surprised, that’s all,” Arthur says. He sticks his straw in his mouth and sucks down maybe a third of his margarita.

"Yeah." Eames watches Arthur. "Yeah, so was I." Why did he pursue Arthur so actively if he thought he'd be shocked if the sex was good? Hard to say, but now he's very glad he did.

“Because we normally get along so great,” says Arthur. He sighs. “Sorry. We get along fine, I’m just being--am I your first work friend, still, or does this screw that up?”

"I don't think anything's screwed up," Eames says. Arthur, he realizes, is anxious. "I think we can find the proper balance."

“Yeah?” Arthur said. 

"Yeah," Eames says. "I just imagine it'll be harder to avoid doing that after jobs."

Arthur clears his throat, and then doesn’t say anything. 

"Yes?" Eames does his best to infuse the word with encouraging gentleness. Arthur seems to need it.

He says, “When exactly are you meeting your friends? Because I didn’t check out.”

"Later," Eames says, and his stomach flutters. "Much later."

Arthur relaxes, just a bit. “All right, then,” he says, and takes a sip of his drink. He’s smiling now, enough that his hand on the straw can’t hide it.

Eames grins at him. "Finish that drink and I'll pay."

~

About twenty minutes later, they're back at the hotel, this time in Arthur's room. Eames is not completely sure why Arthur agreed to do this again. Not that it was bad--it wasn't--but this doesn't really enable Arthur to be aloof.

Eames kicks his shoes off as soon as they're through the door and bites back the desire to say, "Trouble at home?"

“You want to go a little longer this time?” Arthur says. He’s getting himself a glass of water at the sink--because of course it’s a suite, and of course it has a kitchenette. Cobbs don’t travel cheaply, from anything Eames has ever seen. All of Arthur’s things appear to be packed, even though he’s said he’s staying put. Does he just never unpack?

"I can go longer," Eames says, a little defensively. He scans the room for any sign of life. A phone charger on the floor. Loose change. Anything.

“I’m not insulting you,” Arthur says, glass half-drained in his hand. “I’m asking what you want.”

"Longer is good," Eames says. Maybe if they go longer, slower, he can begin to get an idea of what's going through Arthur's mind. "I can't imagine what sort of wild things you're into."

“I thought you had a great imagination,” Arthur says. “Isn’t that your thing?” He puts down his cup and starts to take his shirt off. 

Eames just watches for a minute. Arthur's body is excellent. "That's why you drive me mad," he says finally, unbuttoning his own shirt. "I can't imagine you."

Arthur smiles to himself and folds his shirt before he sets it down on a chair. “Is that why you never let up?” he says. “I hurt your professional pride?”

"Partly," Eames says, eyeing the folded shirt. "You'd be hard to forge, you know."

“Aren’t most real people?” Arthur says. “Forging only works because people are so comfortable with superficial impressions. They don’t care what’s going on in someone’s head. They just see what you give them in the first five seconds.” He undoes his belt--how far is he going to go without letting Eames touch him?--and adds, “ _You_ have to know that’s true.”

"Interesting," Eames says mildly. "It's not the principle I operate under at all. I have more pride than that." What is Arthur's life like that he's gotten so cynical so young?

“Fine, then you’re a genius, and I’m sure you can forge me just fine,” Arthur says. He lays his belt on top of his shirt and looks Eames up and down. 

"You are causing me to be unnerved," Eames says.

“What?” Arthur says, sounding startled. 

"Well, you're just stripping and folding things and staring!" Eames says.

Arthur stops. “Well, sorry,” he says, and looks immediately like he wishes he hadn’t been doing any of that. Well, maybe not the folding. It’s hard to imagine Arthur regretting any folding.

"Anyway," Eames says, "I can't forge you. I've tried." It's actually become a little bit of a hobby. It started as a joke with himself and now it's just frustrating.

“What the hell,” Arthur says. Now he looks completely consternated.

"What?" Eames tosses his shirt onto the floor. "If you don't know why someone does the things he does, it's a hell of a lot more difficult to make it believable."

“Yeah, but why do you need to do it at all?” Arthur says. “Just call me, for god’s sake.”

Eames laughs, because honestly, until today he could not have imagined Arthur telling him to call. "It's practice," he says. "I do it with everyone." Not _everyone_ , but Arthur doesn't need to know that.

Arthur rubs his head. “Okay. With that disturbing fact in mind. Are we--?”

"Yes," Eames says, and he closes the gap between them. It suddenly feels strange to think about kissing Arthur, but he does it anyway. Arthur's lips are slightly chapped. It's very nice.

Arthur’s hands on him are firm and confident, and maybe all that stuff about how weird Eames is shouldn’t be taken too personally. One of Arthur’s arms snakes around Eames’s lower back and tugs him in close.

Arthur keeps his eyes shut when he kisses.

Eames presses against Arthur and nips at his bottom lip. The reason Arthur's lips are chapped, he realizes, is probably him. A jolt of heat goes through him at this thought. Arthur makes a little noise and pulls him in tighter. Then both his hands are on Eames’s neck, and he’s kissing his way down Eames’s jaw like time is running out.

Eames moans and digs his hands into Arthur's skin, reveling in how soft it is. “Should have done this ages ago," he mutters.

Arthur’s breath catches, and then comes out hot against Eames’s collarbone.

“What do you like?” Arthur says. “Anything is fine, except we’re getting as far as the bed this time.” He looks up at Eames.

Eames swallows hard. "Oh, you know," he says. "I'm flexible. I'm not just saying that. I like lots of things." He really doesn't get this question a lot.

Arthur makes a noise that sounds a little like laughing. “All right,” he says. “All right, just--” He pulls Eames towards the bed, and before Eames can think too gratuitously about who else has fucked there in the last two days, Arthur drags Eames down and pushes him onto his back, kissing him and barely stopping for breath.

Eames gasps and holds onto Arthur's hips, pinning their bodies together. After a minute, he reaches up to grab Arthur's hair, mussing it up and winding his fingers it in tightly.

Arthur’s eyes roll shut for a second, and then he dips his head and starts kissing and stroking his way down Eames’s chest. Arthur is competent at everything. Every touch is electric. Eames keeps his hands in Arthur's hair, not to regain any kind of control, but because he can feel Arthur responding to it. He guides Arthur to one of his nipples and arches up into the touch.

Without moving his mouth away, Arthur fights his way between Eames’s legs, his breath hot and uneven, his hands clenching against Eames’s stomach, then hips. His tongue is messy and wet against Eames’s chest, and it’s so unlikely as to be shocking.

"Jesus," Eames mutters. He reaches down and drags his fingernails across Arthur's shoulders, hard enough to leave a mark. He never wants Arthur to stop doing this.

Arthur moans into his skin, a low sound that ends like a whimper. Eames feels him shaking slightly. He shifts onto an elbow and grapples with the button of Eames’s pants without looking down.

"Now I see why you undressed," Eames says breathlessly. Arthur's breath is so hot.

The button comes free, and Arthur looks up, flushed. “Now you have to tell me what you want,” he says. “I came prepared. Just tell me.”

Eames thinks fast. It's not that he doesn't fuck people he isn't serious about, it's that it's usually a mistake if he's going to see them again. And he wants to see Arthur again. "Yeah, we should fuck," he hears himself say.

Arthur, in his usual voice of mild annoyance, says, “Which way?” Somehow it doesn’t even ruin the mood.

"You taking charge, that's good right now," Eames says. "Let's stick with that."

“Good,” Arthur says. “Hang on.” He disappears into his immaculately packed luggage.

Eames lies absolutely still, just feeling himself breathe. This is very good sex. Arthur, while still a frustrating and confusing package, is good at this.

When Arthur comes back to bed, he’s naked and a little less pink. His eyes are dark, though, and his breath stutters in his chest when he gets his hands back on Eames.

“Up,” he says, hands on Eames’s waistband.

Eames raises his eyebrows and obeys. He should have known Arthur could be bossy in bed. He's bossy the rest of the time. It sends a soothing tingle down Eames's spine. Arthur works him out of his pants without any struggle, and Eames waits to see if he folds them. 

He _does_. He folds them and drops them very neatly on the floor.

Eames laughs incredulously. "Oh, Arthur," he says. He can't be too sharp, though. He wants Arthur too badly. Arthur ignores the barb, anyway. He catches Eames’s knee over his shoulder, and starts kissing up the inside of his thigh, nails running up the other side.

Eames spreads his legs and bites the inside of his wrist to keep quiet. His breathing quickly gets ragged, and he fights to keep from jerking his hips toward Arthur.

“There we go,” Arthur murmurs, mouth against Eames’s hip. “I’ve got you now, all right?”

He wraps a hand around Eames’s cock and slowly strokes him. 

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Eames says. Arthur is so _sweet_. He didn't expect this, and he doesn't know what to do with it.

Arthur keeps kissing and touching, everywhere, anything Eames might be self-conscious about, until he’s shaking and beside himself.

“Cold,” Arthur warns, with the snap of a lid. Open, then closed. Cold, slick fingers touch his ass. Arthur takes a sharp breath.

Eames grabs the pillow and turns his head, burying his face it in so he won't cry out. Arthur is fucking amazing. Why the hell is Arthur even doing this?

Whyever he’s doing it, he does it _so well_. Eames feels himself relaxing, overwhelmed by touch. Arthur doesn’t take his other hand off Eames’s cock. He’s not looking, so he doesn’t expect Arthur’s mouth sliding over the tip.

"Oh," Eames says loudly, before burying his face in the pillow again. "Fuck," he mutters into the fabric, hands finding Arthur's hair again.

Arthur has three fingers in him by now. He lifts his head and says, “Let go,” more gently than Eames has ever heard him say anything. He slides his fingers out, puts his hand against Eames’s hip. Says, “Come on.” He pushes his cock in, slick, and Eames watches him stifle a moan.

Now Eames can't look away. He knows he's making noise, but his eyes are glued to Arthur. Arthur, fucking him, Arthur, looking so goddamn focused and beautiful and intense. He feels himself relax and just let Arthur take care of him.

Arthur hooks Eames’s leg over his shoulder again, and ducks to kiss Eames’s stomach and ribs, over and over until the feeling overtakes him and he just makes noises against Eames’s skin instead.

"Oh god," Eames says thickly. "Arthur, oh god--" He feels his orgasm build and just barely remembers to haul the pillow over his face again before he comes, screaming, and feeling Arthur all over every inch of him.

Arthur pulls out of him, hand braced against his side. When Eames comes out from behind the pillow, Arthur’s still poised there, shaking, looking at Eames like he might come to pieces in a minute. 

Eames rallies his energy--his limbs feel like liquid--and flips Arthur onto his back. He strips the condom off and ducks his head to slide his mouth over Arthur's cock.

Arthur makes an anguished noise and covers his face with both hands. Eames can feel his whole body shaking.

Eames grabs Arthur's hip with one hand and drags his hand down Arthur's chest with the other, taking Arthur's cock as deep as he can. He makes it wet and messy, and he can't believe what it's doing to Arthur.

Arthur mumbles something desperate into his hands, then says, “Eames!” 

Eames tightens his hands on Arthur, to make it clear he's listening.

“ _Shit,”_ Arthur says, and comes, crying out, before Eames could back off even if he wanted to. Arthur’s legs tangle around him, and his fist hits the bed. Then he falls back, limp and gasping, eyes screwed shut. 

Eames sits back and catches his breath thoughtfully. "Well," he says finally. His voice is hoarse. "I'm glad you hadn't checked out."

Arthur opens his eyes and regards Eames.

“Yeah,” he says, still breathing a bit hard. “Not bad.”

Eames feels himself relaxing, but he's definitely not allowed to fall asleep in Arthur's bed. Even if they did have amazing sex. "It was somewhat unexpected," he says. "In a good way."

Arthur sits up, elbows resting over his knees. He doesn’t seem worried about being naked. “Yeah? Good.” He wipes his forehead with the back of one arm and smiles at Eames. Nothing that’s going to shatter the walls between them, but a nice smile. “You can use the shower, if you want.”

"That would be lovely," Eames says. He wants to drag Arthur in there with him, but possibly Arthur is a person who needs space after sex. Eames, who doesn't enjoy being naked in company, grabs a sheet and wraps it around himself.

“You can, I can wait,” Arthur says. His words trip over themselves a little. 

"Or," Eames says.

Arthur looks almost bashful. “It just seemed like a lot,” he says. 

"Right," Eames agrees. It was a lot. It is. But he keeps wanting it. "It’s up to you."

Arthur hesitates for a long time--a long time, for Arthur. Then he says, “No, you go. Save some for next time.”

Eames nods and gives Arthur a smile to show him it's fine. "Be out in a few." He spends the whole shower replaying everything they did and, because it's a hobby, picking it apart. He has so many more pieces of Arthur now, and he still doesn't understand him. When he finally emerges, towelling off his hair, he fixes Arthur with a penetrating stare, still thinking.

Arthur is wrapped in a blanket by this time, sitting next to a stack of fresh clothes. He looks caught out. “What?” he says. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

"Ah," Eames says. "Nothing. Just pondering. Where on earth did you learn to be so good at sex?"

Arthur says, “That is a weird question. Why do you always have to make it weird?” He doesn’t seem mad, though.

Eames laughs. "I didn't mean it the way it came out, anyway. I just expected--Well, I knew you'd be good, or I wouldn't have pursued you. But that was quite a bit nicer than I imagined. So thanks for a very pleasant experience."

Arthur shakes his head, still smiling. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Thanks for lunch. Now, I’ve got to clean up, and I think you have people you’re supposed to be seeing.”

"Indeed," Eames says. He gives Arthur a sideways smile and drops the towel on the floor. "Next time. I mean it about that job." He fights the urge to give Arthur a pat or something as he walks out. It probably wouldn't be well-received.

“See you,” Arthur says, before the door shuts between them.


	13. 2.8 THE SLED DOGS

The idea sounded great in the warm summer breeze at an outdoor restaurant, but in practice, Arthur isn’t thrilled about going to the Arctic. Not the actual Arctic, just a dream-Arctic, but it will _feel_ cold, and the reason they’re going is good, but somehow feels worse than crime. An Arctic research group is paying them to bring a middle-aged would be explorer on the Arctic expedition of her (metaphorical) dreams, horrify her with ice cap destruction--this is where at least one of them will die agonizingly--and compel her to put a lot of company money into putting things right.

Arthur feels tired.

He’s put in a better mood when Eames shows up to help them test it out, acting jolly and winking a lot. Arthur tries to keep his smile inside. He hasn’t told Mal and Dom that he and Eames slept together, and this isn’t how and where he wants them to find out. Things have been so good lately, he doesn’t want an upset.

He’s still happy to see Eames.

They make short work of hellos and go straight into Eames’s dream. It’s cold, bright, vast--there’s a camp set up around them. Smiling sled dogs are waiting.

Dom sighs and sets his jaw. "Not exactly what I had in mind, but it'll do." The level is his design, and it's huge, of course--it has to look real. But there are parts of it that work in a clever loop Arthur doesn't quite understand so they won't just be trekking through the ice and snow endlessly.

Eames is currently playing a scientist who, in real life, is a colleague of their explorer's. He's clearly had a great deal of fun with the adding touches to his winter gear--everything is a little too pink and crisp.

“Cute,” Arthur tells him, squinting in the sun. Goggles. He thinks them into his hand and quickly puts them on.

“Sensitive,” Mal tells him, smiling.

"Getting lost might be a concern," Eames suggests.

Dom shakes his head. "No," he says curtly. "It's much smaller than it looks. I thought of that."

Arthur goes over to the dogs and lets them jump at him in a state of tail-slamming ecstasy. It’s like real dogs, except that it’s Eames. Kind of a nice thought.

“Did you name them?” he asks.

"Yes," Eames says. "After all my siblings." For now, he's still acting like himself. Arthur has seen him completely disappear into a role when he's actually on a job.

“Don’t kid me,” Arthur says.

“Are we getting a little distracted?” Mal says.

"Just chatting," Eames says. He gives Arthur a charmed smile.

"I'm trying to show you the route." Dom sounds annoyed already.

“Sorry,” Arthur says. “If Maura asks what they’re called, I want to have an answer. She’s a dog person. She keeps a pair of breeding pharaoh hounds. I assume that’s why we have the dogs, to break down her defenses.” He looks at Eames, to check.

Eames grins at him. "I'd take credit for your observational skills, but clearly you were already there. They're actually just named after Greek letters. Easy for us to remember."

“Good enough,” Arthur says. “If we get them mixed up, hopefully we can play it off.” The dogs nuzzle against his gloved hands. They have work to do, but he likes these guys a lot.

"Are the dogs projections or set dressing?" Dom asks.

"Don't get hung up on the dogs, mate," Eames says, slapping his shoulder.

"Not really getting into character, huh?" Dom demands.

Instead of answering, Eames joins Arthur to play with the dogs.

“I think you should have let the dogs go,” Arthur hears Mal say to Dom. She sounds like she’s laughing at him a little. Arthur smiles at Eames, just a little in case they’re watching. 

“It’s a lot of pink,” he says.

"Trust me," Eames says. "It's what she wears." He lowers his voice. "How're things?"

“Good,” Arthur says. Dom is muttering something back to Mal; Mal is distracting him. “Good,” Arthur says again. “I’m glad to see you.”

"I don't suppose," Eames says innocently, "that he's made this level big enough that we could sneak off and fuck."

“I don’t suppose, either,” Arthur says. He makes himself keep patting his chosen husky on her patterned head.

"After, then," Eames says carelessly. But his eyes meet Arthur's and he looks anxious.

Arthur doesn’t want that any more than he wants Eames to think they’re dating, any more than he wants Eames to tell Mal and Dom he and Arthur have slept together. What does he want? Eames’s expression is in this woman’s face, and Arthur wants that. He wants--he tenses at just the memory of Eames touching him--he wants Eames. He wants everything to be all right at home. And it is all right, Arthur thinks, as long as they keep things exactly like this. No tipping the balance.

“It’s not off the table,” Arthur says under his breath. “But a foursome is.”

Eames barks out a surprised laugh, and Dom and Mal glance over.

"We're wasting time," Dom says. "Are you two coming?"

"You'd have to drug me," Eames mutters to Arthur. Louder, he says, "All right, hop on the sled!"

There are two sleds, actually, with gear and room for passengers as needed. 

“I’m driving,” Mal says decisively.

"I'll go with Arthur," Dom says, just as decisively.

Eames looks horrified.

“Bye,” says Arthur with a wave and a grin.

Dom drives, of course. He takes them across the snow pretty slowly, pointing out the route they'll be taking. Mal's sled pulls ahead before long, and Dom says, voice raised against the sound of the sled, "Eames is being pretty friendly."

“Eames is always pretty friendly,” Arthur yells back.

"To you," Dom specifies. "Maybe because I had a talk with him before we took the job."

“You did what?” Arthur says incredulously.

Dom turns and gives him a wind-burned smile. "I told him I was sick of him being so rude to you. I said we wouldn't give him any more work if he didn't pull it together. I guess it worked!"

Arthur is torn between laughter and being politely straighfaced.

“Are you totally sure that was necessary?” he asks Dom. If Eames overheard this he’d either die of laughter or get into one of his snits about Dom’s basic human decency. Arthur does not wish for either. 

"I'm sure!" Dom shouts. He slows the dogs down. "Look, on the left. That bank is hollowed out, just in case we need a place to regroup. Anyway, hasn't he been more polite to you?"

Arthur thinks about Eames’s grip on his elbow, his hands scraping up Arthur’s sides, his tongue forcing its way into Arthur’s mouth while Arthur stifled moans.

“He’s always nice to me when we’re on our own,” he says. It’s so stupid to say that, _so_ stupid, and he bites his tongue and prays broadly that Dom won’t have heard him.

"What?" Dom says, but not _what_ like he hasn't heard. What like _what the hell?_ "I try not to leave you alone."

“No, you know, but the times when we’ve taken a break,” Arthur says, like it’s nothing. “I go on jobs, right? Eames has been useful for that a couple times.” Again, a stupid thing to say, bringing up something uncomfortable when things are all right--especially when he and Eames didn’t actually sleep together on one of those jobs. 

"Huh," Dom says after a minute. "I wouldn't trust him on a solo job with someone."

“Yeah, well, I’m still in one piece,” Arthur says. “Nice of you to look out for me, though.”

"I know you can handle him," Dom says dubiously, looking after Mal's sled. "It just doesn't seem like you'd get along. You know, there are other forgers."

“He’s all talk,” Arthur tells him. “The bullshit is bullshit, and on the jobs, he’s great. It’s really fine.”

Dom doesn't say anything, which is unfair, since he's the one who keeps hiring Eames. Maybe he won't, now, Arthur thinks with a sinking feeling. They catch up with the other sled, which has stopped, back where they started.

"See?" Dom says, a little breathlessly. "Closed loop. But you'd never notice, with this terrain."

“Very nice,” Arthur says. He gets to his feet and stretches his legs. Eames, standing by Mal’s sled, looks somewhat shaken.

"Maybe we could smooth it out, in the final draft," he says, smiling weakly at Arthur.

“I think it’s wonderful,” Mal says, greeting Dom with a kiss and Arthur with a gentle pat to the cheek of his hood. It warms Arthur up considerably. 

“What did you boys talk about on the way around?” Mal asks. “I heard you yelling.”

"Oh," Dom says, "Just that Arthur and Eames did a few solo jobs together. I didn't realize."

Arthur keeps his face pleasant and pointed at Mal. Mal wrinkles her nose and smiles back.

“Our Arthur gets up to all kinds of things in his spare time, don’t you think?” she says. She turns to Eames. “Do you _like_ Arthur?”

"I like him well enough," Eames says. His expression is utterly neutral, which probably means he knows they've been caught.

“Good,” Mal says. “He’s very sweet, you know. Very sweet and so capable. I would hate to think you weren’t taking advantage--or, no, that can’t be what I mean.”

It could be. 

Arthur says, “All right, all right, I didn’t think you’d care that we worked together.” He really wants to escape this trajectory. It doesn’t matter why he was flying solo a few months ago. He doesn’t want Eames to find out and he doesn’t want Mal and Dom getting reminded of it, either. Everything got sorted out. There isn’t any point lingering over solved problems.

"I don't care," Dom says. "I just didn't know. I wouldn't have tried so hard to warn him off you."

Eames makes a slightly strangled noise that could be either amused or horrified.

Arthur hopes it’s too cold to be obvious if he’s blushing. He can’t help it, he’s pale, he shows a blush easily and this is some kind of circle of hell. A mild one, but hell, and literally a closed loop of it. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “We’re all on the same page.”

Mal says, very seriously, “Now we all kiss and make up, don’t we?”

Dom laughs and gives her a quick kiss. He smiles at Arthur. Mal can get Dom out of any mood about anything.

"I'll kiss one of the dogs," Eames says.

“As long as one of them is named Arthur,” says Mal.

"Good lord," Eames says.

"What?" Dom says.

“It’s just a joke, my darling,” Mal says, but her eyes on Arthur are so wicked that he shivers. 

“Are we done here?” he says.

"Unless anyone has any questions about the layout," Dom says, but now he's watching Eames thoughtfully, with a troubled expression.

“Nope,” Arthur says calmly, trying hard not to grit his teeth.

"We still have a few minutes on the clock," Dom points out. Eames groans audibly.

“What, Eames, I thought you were excited to work with us again,” Mal teases. “You sounded excited on the phone.”

"Always happy to see a paycheck," Eames says pleasantly.

Arthur gives up. He sits in the snow and lets the dogs overwhelm him. Maybe if he dies in this pile of dogs, when he wakes up things will be less awkward.


	14. 12.2 ANOTHER YUSUF TIME

Work is quiet, because work is nearly always quiet (bar, please, sporadic invasions and calamities). He’s underground today. He doesn’t spend a lot of time in the dreaming den, because his work is done when the chemicals pass into someone else’s hands. However, he’s adjusted the mix a little this week, and today he’s observing the effects on the four individuals who are testing it for him. The attendants don’t bother him and he doesn’t bother them; just fiddles and takes notes and watches carefully.

He’s really lulled into a perfect place of both focus and peace when someone comes clattering down the steps and says his name, loudly, with no respect for anything.

"Yusuf!" Eames comes into view, looking less dishelved than usual, although slightly pink in the face. "Well, there you are. I thought you'd been kidnapped or something."

“Hardly,” says Yusuf. “I’m working.” He says farewell to peace and doesn’t bother to keep his voice down; it certainly won’t bother the guests if he speaks at a normal volume.

Eames waves a hand, as if to say that Yusuf working is not important. "Take a break and have a drink with me," he says.

Yusuf winces internally. Certain family members have recently taken a harder stance on drinking, including on whether Yusuf should be drinking, and the rub of it is that drinking doesn’t ease the discomfort of their displeasure. For this week, anyway.

“Maybe tea or something,” he says. “But I am working. Really.”

"Tea, I meant tea," Eames says. "Of course. Did you miss me, though? I'm dying to hear about all this." He doesn't usually ask about the dream den at all, which makes Yusuf suspicious.

“Are you really?” he says, and sighs. “You’re going to stay here and interrupt no matter what I do, aren’t you?” And the longer they stay the more likely Eames is to do something incredibly stupid in public. “Come back to my place,” he says, as if they don’t live together.

He can see that isn't wasted on Eames, who frowns slightly. "Yes, let's," he says. "I can tell you missed me after all."

Yusuf makes a couple of jokes to the attendants, picks up his things, and promises to be back tomorrow. 

“Call me if anything awful happens,” he says. He leads the way back onto the street.

“Don’t forget yourself and be demonstrative,” he says to Eames. “Talk to me about nothing until we get home, hmm?”

"I do know," Eames says, but he seems to have calmed down a bit. He spends the walk talking to Yusuf about his flight, which he makes out to be a lot more exciting than it probably was. Then again, Eames can cause excitement in any situation.

Once they’re behind closed doors, Yusuf says, “All right. Come here, then.”

Eames flings his arms around Yusuf's neck and kisses him without further ado.

Yusuf laughs into his mouth and kisses him firmly back, then pets the side of his head and steps backwards into a chair. 

“Your job went well?” he asks. He feels calm on the surface, but lately when he asks this question there’s a little thrill that goes along with it--does he get to be angry, or upset, or annoyed? Is he about to be abandoned? 

"Well enough," Eames says. "I don't take back what I said about the Cobbs. They're wolves. Or a wolf and a fox, perhaps." He drops his bag on the floor.

Privately, Yusuf thinks he mostly feels that way because the Cobbs stand between him and something he thinks that he wants. He does seem to want it now, is the thing.

“You could stop,” he suggests lightly. “Though I don’t know where you’d get your money; it seems as if they’re half your work at this point.”

Eames opens his mouth, then shuts it. "Well," he says. "What about that tea?" He goes to make it--he always remembers where everything is, no matter how long he's been gone.

“You’re not keeping any secrets,” Yusuf says, which is a brave broaching of the subject. “Make a pot, will you?”

Eames doesn't answer at first, instead going through the motions of making tea. Finally he says, "Is it a secret, though?"

Yusuf really doesn’t want to hash through the rules they have and haven’t made for, or with, one another. 

He says, “I assume it’s a secret from the Cobbs or they would have had you killed by now.”

"After this last job, I wouldn't bet money on that," Eames says sourly. "She's sharp, that Mallorie. Yusuf, I am sorry. It's--we're not people who settle down."

“No?” Yusuf says. To be fair, he grimaces at the thought of being with Eames forever, in a romantic capacity, and when they first started sleeping together they were sleeping with other people, and when they first started seeing each other they were hardly exclusive. But it’s settled down into a mostly exclusive thing. Except for Arthur. Eames really seems to like Arthur. “We had been feeling fairly settled, I think,” he says, and it’s seventy percent fair.

"Yes," Eames says slowly, tapping the side of the kettle to check if it's hot. "I know. Are you saying you don't want us to sleep with other people, ever, though? I'm away a lot. I'm not sure you'd be happy with that limitation either." He's still framing the whole thing as being about sex.

Yusuf sighs. How is he supposed to say he doesn’t want Eames to feel anything? If they’re not exclusive--and Yusuf is just as happy not to be--and if Yusuf doesn’t want to run off to another country and marry Eames, then what’s his damned problem?

“It just seems,” he says carefully, “as if you’re shaping your life around this Arthur, lately. All those jobs? And it makes one wonder if one is just a convenient layover.”

Eames rubs a hand over his face. "You're not--You're my friend. Best friend and you know it. But you're right, Arthur is interesting. He's worth spending time on. With. But I'm not just here out of habit."

Yusuf considers. “Are you in love with him?”

"No!" It comes out as a bark of laughter, not a bit defensive, which makes Yusuf feel slightly better.

Yusuf nods slowly. “Well, if you ever are,” he says, “let me know. Because at that point I think we should break up, don’t you? I can’t possibly be the boyfriend you’ve abandoned emotionally and keep on clinging, you understand? But until you’re that far gone, I’d like to keep you around. In this capacity.”

He means it all very seriously, even though he knows that Eames, of the barking NO!, is going to think it’s all a bit of a joke.

"In this capacity," Eames mimics. "All right, all. That's all very fair. Why are we talking so much about Arthur? That's not why I came home."

That’s why he keeps leaving home, of course. But a deal is a deal.

“Too right,” Yusuf says. “Now come on, let’s have this tea.”


	15. 1.5 AFTER THE SOME POINT WHEN THEY SLEEP TOGETHER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex! And feelings

The first time Eames thought he and Arthur might sleep together, Arthur came upon him out of nowhere. Well--not out of nowhere. He came upon him from Brussels, where Eames was, in theory, hiding out. It wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge. He couldn’t think what Arthur was doing there. 

“I have something for us,” Arthur had said, “just you and me.” And at several points during that job, Eames really did think…

But they didn’t sleep together, and Eames didn’t piece together the meaning of Arthur’s surprise exodus from Mal and Dom until later.

When they do finally sleep together, it is a surprise after all, because Eames isn’t sure until the moment they’ve got each other’s cocks in their hands that Arthur will do anything that’s out of line with the Cobbs. They do it twice, it’s nice, and Eames mostly doesn’t regret it, even if he also doesn’t mention it to Yusuf.

It happens again. Enough times that he does tell Yusuf, which is a whole separate and slightly stressful issue. After few times, Eames starts to get fed up. It’s all very pleasant. But people get a certain way, when you fuck them right, and Arthur won’t go. Whatever Eames has tried isn’t working.

Eames prides himself on being good at sex, largely being he's good at people. But he can't figure Arthur out, and so he can't fuck him the way that he wants. But Arthur still keeps coming back, so that must mean something.

The next job they do together, Eames doesn't try anything. He thinks he probably won't, this time. He's tired of getting it wrong. It's not until the job is done and he's back in his own hotel room that he realizes he's furious with himself. What's he going to do, just give up? Arthur likes him, he must. And he likes Arthur (an increasing and dangerous amount), so he can't just let it go because he's failed to impress.

So before Arthur can pack up and leave immediately, like he often does, Eames pays him a visit. He hasn't got a plan in his head, except to _do better_.

He goes to the hotel, charms his way into learning Arthur’s room number, and hurries upstairs. There’s a moment of silence after his knock that Eames thinks _might_ mean Arthur has snuck out the window. Then the deadbolt slides back, and Arthur peers at him through the slit of the open door.

“Are we not done?” Arthur asks.

"I'm not," Eames says. He lets himself in, shutting the door gently behind him. He spent the walk here thinking of a few dozen clever openers, but Arthur usually responds poorly to those, so he just kisses him instead.

Arthur is holding a carry-on bag in one hand. He slowly puts it on the floor. He kisses back, not hard, and lets Eames break away first.

“Is that what you wanted?” Arthur says. “You really are forming a habit.”

"A bad habit," Eames mutters. "Let's improve it, shall we?" He kisses Arthur again, confident that he'll be told no very firmly if this is a mistake.

Arthur’s hands slide up Eames’s back, and it makes his skin tingle from frustration as much as pleasure. It’s too gentle, too aloof. Always, always he can feel the distance. He can feel that Arthur likes him _and_ that they’re not quite connected.

Eames has tried rough (well, rough for him--insistent), and he's tried letting Arthur push him around. Arthur goes for all of it, and it’s all good, but none of it _lands_.

He grabs for Arthur's wrists and squeezes lightly. Arthur, arms still wrapped around Eames, settles down, but doesn’t stop kissing him.

Eames backs Arthur up against the bed, trying to put out of his mind what _should_ work. He trips a little and huffs out a laugh, catching Arthur's eye.

“Looking for something?” Arthur asks. “You know, I have a train to catch.”

"I'm looking for this, for god's sake," Eames says. He kisses Arthur again, trying to show him just how much he has been looking for this. He brings his hands up to cup Arthur's face.

Arthur tilts his head to meet him, presses himself Eames’s body--convivially, companionably, casual friend-ly. It’s good and it’s not enough. So what if he belongs to the Cobbs? He _shouldn’t._

Eames kisses Arthur gently, thoroughly, until they're both breathing fast. Then he guides him backwards onto the bed until he's flat on his back. _What if_ , Eames thinks. He tries to stop himself from finishing the thought, but this happens to him every time. _What if I had this every day?_

Arthur doesn’t have any little grumbles, for the moment. His mouth is closed and he’s watching Eames, one hand caught in the collar of Eames’s shirt. 

Eames can't bear to look at him, so he ducks his head and kisses Arthur's stomach, pushes his immaculate shirt out of the way. It occurs to him to wonder what Yusuf would say if he could see this. He'd probably say, _Typical!_ Or he'd finally kick Eames out. All fairly well deserved.

“There we are, my darling,” he says softly.

Eames is moving very gently, so he doesn’t expect the little whining note in Arthur’s caught breath. 

Something is working. "Shh," Eames whispers. Not because he wants Arthur to _shh_ , but his immediate instinct is to put Arthur back together. He sighs and touches Arthur's ribcage with his fingertips. Arthur makes another little noise and grips the blankets--tries to put one arm around Eames’s neck--winds up with his hand fisted in his own hair. His eyes are shut.

"There we are, love," Eames says, a little dismayed, but steady. He keeps kissing Arthur's stomach, bracketing Arthur's hips with his hands. "There we are."

Arthur opens his mouth (not his eyes, just his mouth) to say something, and snaps it shut over a moan instead. He reaches out, sightless, for Eames’s collar, and holds tight with both hands. His arms get a little in the way of what Eames is doing. 

After a moment, Eames stops long enough to get both of their pants off. He doesn't want to stop touching Arthur for even a second. He gets himself between Arthur's legs and leans in to kiss him again. "All right, darling?"

Whatever he’s done, it seems to have stolen Arthur’s voice completely away; he only nods, hand pressed over his eyes. His free hand makes a little spinning motion, like _Get on with it._ That is almost reassuring.

Eames is fascinated. He's also breathless with how much he wants Arthur, and how much Arthur wants him. He makes quick work of stretching Arthur open, kissing his stomach and hips the whole time. Arthur’s knees are hooked over Eames’s shoulders. His calves tense against Eames’s back when Eames moves his fingers just so. At the head of the bed, Arthur’s breathing is quick and noisy and painful.

“Hurry up,” Arthur finally says, in a voice like his heart’s in his throat. “Go ahead.”

When Eames pushes inside, he mutters, "Got you, pet. You look lovely." Arthur does, and Eames wants to cry with what a relief it is.

Eames keeps kissing him while he fucks him. His hands cradle Arthur's face, and he whispers into his mouth, "Here I am, love." He slides his hands down Arthur's sides, touching, containing. "Right here." He kisses Arthur's face, his eyelids, his temples. "Here, darling."

At some point Arthur starts shaking. He clings and stretches under Eames’s weight, and moans on the edge of sobbing. He’s never, ever looked like this before, not with Eames.

"Not letting go of you," Eames mutters. He's transfixed. He never wants to let go of this Arthur. He wraps his hand around Arthur's cock and kisses and kisses him.

Arthur’s breath catches--Eames can _feel_ it--and he comes over Eames’s hand with a long, anguished noise. 

It's the best thing Eames has seen in years, and then he's coming too, keeping himself quiet, but not looking away from Arthur's face.

"God," he whispers, as he rolls away, trying to catch his breath. He should say something. He can't say anything. He grabs the corner of the blanket and pulls it over Arthur.

"You all right?" he asks after a second.

“Of course,” Arthur says. He sounds strange. Delicate. He’s blinking at the ceiling.

"That was bloody amazing," Eames says, perhaps necessarily. Arthur, he thinks, isn't at all what he thought.

Arthur gets up and finds his pants. He doesn’t seem like he’s shutting Eames out. He just seems quiet. Lost, almost. 

“Nice of you to come by,” he says. 

"I'll come by again," Eames says. He dresses carefully, trying to prolong his stay. "Next time. Or, you know, there doesn't have to be a job for you to call me."

He can’t tell what Arthur is thinking about in the long pause after his words.

“This was nice,” Arthur finally says, half-repeating himself, and it doesn’t answer anything. 

"Right," Eames says, because, who the hell knows? But he got what he wanted. He got through to Arthur, and even better, he liked what he found there. "I'll see you.” On an impulse, he gives Arthur a quick hug. He expects Arthur to stand there being cardboard, the way he so loves to do. Arthur doesn’t, though. His arms wrap around Eames’s waist and give him a squeeze that’s barely there before it’s over. Like being run into by a butterfly. If the butterfly wouldn’t stop looking at you like it didn’t know what to do.

"Here," Eames says. He scribbles a number on the back of a business card (100% fake information on the front). "My private number. My real number. _Call_ me."

Arthur takes the card. “Thank you,” he says. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t offer one back, but maybe that’s because he knows Eames can find him if he wants. Maybe it’s because he’s not completely deluded, and he knows that Eames doesn’t, at present, have anything to run away from the way Arthur does. 

Arthur looks up at him, his usual small frown of concentration back on his face where it belongs. “I’ll call,” he says. 

"Good," Eames says. He kisses Arthur's cheek, squeezes his arm, and takes himself out of the door before he can beg Arthur to come with him.


	16. 9.18 AFTER ARTHUR AND EAMES HAVE FEELINGS SEX

Arthur resists the urge to play with that business card all the way home, but it barely matters that he doesn’t do it. He memorized the number almost as soon as Eames walked out the door, and he can feel it burning a little rectangular hole in his wallet for the whole trip. He could be embarrassed, but he’s not. Not exactly. It’s more like _overwhelmed._

Eames...likes him.

_Darling. Love. Darling. Love._ The words echo back and forth to one another until Arthur, sitting on a crowded homebound train, has to press his palms together to keep them from shaking.

He never expected Eames to like him. He doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s so happy that he feels like he’s falling apart.

Dom meets him at the station with the kids in tow. James is in front in his car seat, so Arthur climbs in the back with Phillipa. “Hey, sport,” he says. “How are you?”

“I learned chess,” she says. “I’m good.”

“Oh, you’ll have to play me,” Arthur says. “There’s a good chance you’ll win.”

“I know,” Phillipa says.

"They've been asking about you nonstop," Dom says. "How was it?"

“It was an Eames job,” Arthur says. “So: legit, ran smooth, everyone got paid.” And in a couple days Eames will be broke again, but that’s not something he needs to say to Dom.

"He never has any shortage of jobs," Dom says. "It's a little annoying, huh? The way he's still more of a pro than us, even though we've been doing this forever?"

“I think he’s been doing this forever,” Arthur says. Anyway, it’s not that Dom and Mal aren’t well-connected, but Eames takes jobs they’d never take. Eames does, and Arthur takes them with him.

"I always expect his jobs to end up being that he's running--guns, or something." Arthur's pretty sure Dom was about to say _drugs_ and censored it to something he thought was somehow more kid-friendly.

“No,” he says. “Not either one. James, how are you doing up there, man?”

“I ATE BUG,” James says.

“Yuck,” says Arthur. 

“It was SO GROSS,” Phillipa says.

"He's been eating everything," Dom says, as if Arthur wouldn't know. "I really hate this phase."

“Well, as long as it doesn’t make him sick,” Arthur says. “How’s your gut, James?”

“What’s gut?”

“How’s your tummy?”

“Tummy good,” James says, and then pats it in a circle.

Phillipa pulls on Arthur’s sleeve. “Look,” she says. “Look at this horse I got.” The horse is brown, plastic, and about the right size for a Barbie to ride on, except Phillipa hates Barbies.

“His name is Glorious,” she says.

"Gloria?" Dom asks. "Yeah, Mal always spoils them extra when you're away." He flashes Arthur a smile in the rearview mirror.

“I’m not spoiled, his name is Glorious,” Phillipa says very loudly.

“He’s incredible,” Arthur says. “What does he do?”

“Fights submarines,” Phillipa says.

"But that submarine did belong to James," Dom says wearily.

“Well, you never know who wins next time,” Arthur says. “How are you, all right?” He wants to cringe, asking it. He sounds guilty. 

"Yeah," Dom says. Dom never knows when something's wrong, and for once, Arthur is relieved. "Mal's parents called. They want to visit, so I've been trying to fix the house up. I know there'll be something wrong no matter what, though."

Arthur, who has been tense for one reason, is suddenly tense for another. “I’ll get myself to the guest bedroom, then.”

"Yeah," Dom says unhappily. "Or, who knows, maybe you and I will have an out-of-town emergency."

Arthur smiles. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Dom is quiet for a minute. Then he says, "Okay, we're doing that. Mal won't mind. She hates it when her mom and I interact. We'll go on an adventure together."

Arthur shifts in his seat. “She won’t mind looking after Tiramisu?”

“Are you going away _again_?” Phillipa says. “If you go away again then I get Tiramisu.” Her mouth and eyebrows turn down. 

Arthur says, “Your grandparents are going to be here, though. Your dad and I just have to go on a little trip.”

“Always,” Phillipa says angrily. Arthur looks at Dom, to see if he takes it back and makes a plan Arthur doesn’t like as much. One that involves only Arthur leaving. He holds his breath, waiting.

_I could call Eames, if he does,_ he thinks. 

"It's just for the weekend," Dom says. "Well, three days. The long weekend. But I'll be back to stay for a while after that." He loves Mal's father, but he and her mother are only stiffly polite at best.

Arthur exhales.

“We’ll go somewhere we can get something good for you,” he tells Phillipa. He wishes they could bring the kids, too. 

No. He wishes all five of them could go good places, for nothing but fun, without risk of anything going wrong. No angry employers, no fights, no guns, no banishments. He wishes--

_My real number. Call me._

Goosebumps, all the way up his arms. “Where do you want to go, Dom?” he says.

"What about camping at Pike's Peak?" Dom says.

“Sounds good to me,” Arthur says. He’s really a city kid, but he’s learned to adjust. Anyway, it will be good to spend a few days with no one but Dom, to reset, to remember what the hell he’s doing. 

In a hotel room, he might just think about Eames.


	17. 9.19 WOODFUCK <-- We really called it that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sex

Dom is in a bad mood when they leave the house--kids yelling, Mal sighing, in-laws imminent--but by the time they reach their campsite, his mood is almost sunny. He likes to get away clean. Arthur, sitting shotgun and fiddling with the music, is happy too. He would have liked to be home for a few days, but this is--this is good. He can focus on what’s in front of him. 

The campground is busy, but once they’ve hiked out to one of the farther sites, it’s not so bad. They pitch their tent and go down to the water. Dom says hi to all the neighbors, and Arthur thinks about different ways he could explain their relationship that would make the neighbors leave them alone.

Dom starts gathering wood for a fire, actually whistling as he does it. He's a terrible whistler. "Half the reason I suggested this was to get you into your casual clothes," he tells Arthur.

“Oh, well,” Arthur says. “For that you only ever have to ask.” He flashes a smile at Dom. 

Dom laughs. "I'm glad I got you alone out here. I miss you when you're off with Eames."

Arthur doesn’t think he gives himself away. Anyway, his face feels still. He says, “Hey, I’m not about to say no to some of the jobs he picks up. They’re wild.”

"I'm sure the architects he uses aren't as good as I am," Dom says, but not like he's actually jealous.

Arthur hesitates halfway to the ground, then sits and starts building the fire. “Of course not. Not when he has one,” he says. “But, you know, he goes skeleton crew most of the time.”

Cobb grimaces. "That's dangerous. I feel like he's not as careful as he could be." He nudges a couple of sticks back into the pile. "I don't know if we'll be able to get this to light, but it'll be fun to try."

“I’m sure we’ll get it to light,” Arthur says, although honestly he’s not that good at this stuff. It’s just doing it in dreams that’s given him a false sense of competency. “What else do you want to do today? Swimming? Hiking? Read a book?” Arthur brought four mystery novels, just in case Dom decided it was a go-off-and-do-your-own-thing kind of trip.

"Swimming sounds good," Dom says. "I also brought extra blankets. If we want to stay in the tent."

Arthur looks up. “Now?” he says. It’s early afternoon.

"Pretty much whenever," Dom says.

Arthur stops messing with kindling. “All right,” he says.

Dom gives him a predatory grin and grabs his upper arm. "C'mon." He drags Arthur into the tent, where, yes, he's piled almost every blanket they own. Arthur's heart beats a little harder. He turns and zips the flap shut behind himself. Then he looks at Dom, kneeling across from him.

Dom rolls his eyes. "I know," he says. "Not the most romantic. And our knees are still going to get bruised. But I say we do it."

“I’m not arguing,” Arthur says. “I’ve got the casual clothes and everything.”

"The sexiest clothes," Dom says. He grabs Arthur by the shoulders and pulls him into a hard kiss. Arthur falls forward into his grip, eyes shut, hands fisted in the blankets beneath them.

Dom brings a hand up to cup the back of Arthur's head, and Arthur can feel the muscles of his hand flexing. Dom bites Arthur's bottom lip and groans into his mouth. Arthur is trapped in position, gasping against Dom’s lips and trying not to make any more noise than that.

Dom must realize, because he says, "It's fine, unless you're screaming, nobody should be able to hear you." (Arthur doesn’t really believe that, but he doesn’t argue either.) He slides his hand into Arthur's hair and gives it a hard tug, forces his head back. Then he leans in and bites Arthur's throat, hard enough to leave a mark.

Arthur does make noise then, like he’s been caught, and his arms give way underneath him. He says Dom’s name and thinks, _This is good, this is good, just think about this._

Dom can't tell that Arthur's distracted. He just keeps kissing him, biting along his jaw and pulling their bodies together. Arthur can feel the heat of Dom's body through his shirt. He lets Dom drag him where he wants him, and kisses back when Dom wants that. It’s good, it’s good, it sets Arthur on fire and it’s familiar, it’s bone-shaking, it’s home. It makes him wild. Focus on that. 

Dom is rough, but today he's playful, too. He knocks Arthur on his back and pins him flat. He drags his nails down Arthur's cheek and sucks on his ear. He's a force, and Arthur wants to be swept away.

He fights his t-shirt over his head and up his arms, and then Dom shoots him a look that makes him freeze with it halfway off, hands above his head. His bare skin prickles, waiting to be touched. All his instincts say to guard himself, but he never guards himself against Dom.

Dom runs his hands over Arthur's stomach, then ducks his head to bite along Arthur's ribcage. He holds Arthur still with his hands and flicks his tongue out against his skin. Arthur pants for breath, arms shaking with the effort of holding still. 

_If he knew what you’re doing with Eames, he wouldn’t touch you like this,_ creeps through his head, and he bites down on a noise that probably sounds like pleasure, but isn’t.

"God, you're wild," Dom mutters. "Come here, I'll blow you."

Arthur wrestles his shirt off, and then his shorts. He kicks his his clothes to one side, and says, breathless, “Where do you,” waving a hand.

"On your back," Dom says. He fluffs up some of the blankets, then pushes Arthur down before he has a chance to go on his own.

_There we are, love,_ Eames’s voice whispers through him. He looks up at Dom, staring back at him dark-eyed as he strips off his clothes. Eames, kissing Arthur, called him _darling._ Arthur’s been called that a lot, but he’s never heard the word sound that way before. Like something you want to hold until it’s warm.

Dom finishes stripping his own clothes off and kneels, looking down at Arthur, his head cocked to one side. "You look so good," he says.

“Yeah?” says Arthur. “Then let’s go, huh?”

Dom straddles Arthur, kneeling on either side of his torso. When he puts his mouth on Arthur's cock, it's electric. The view from here is overwhelmingly good, and for a second Arthur just works on getting his pulse in check. He shuts his eyes and leans back and lets his legs fall wide.

Dom strokes Arthur's sensitive inner thighs with his fingers while he sucks him. Dom doesn't do this a lot, but when he does, he's really good at taking Arthur in deep. Soon Arthur is dazed and gasping. His consciousness slips sideways, but it keeps trying to slip sideways to Eames. Arthur digs his nails into the blankets, moaning, and wrenches it back. _Here. Dom. What he’s doing for you._

He feels delicate, like Eames unwrapped a layer of him and now he’s too sensitive for what Dom--is. For what Dom is. He bites his lip and chokes on a sob.

Dom raises his head for a second. "Christ, touch me," he says, and his voice is a deep growl.

“Sorry!” Arthur says. “Sorry--” He levers as far up on one elbow as he can go, drags his fingers down Dom’s back, over his legs and his ass. He feels like he can’t get enough air, under Dom’s weight. 

"You good?" Dom asks. He puts his mouth on Arthur again before waiting for an answer. 

Arthur’’s hands clench against Dom’s sides, and his heels dig into the floor of the tent. God, he’s a fuckup, he’s a fuckup, this feels so good and he’s _dying_.

“Please, please, please,” he begs. “I need--” He doesn’t know what the hell he needs, he just knows he’s shaking hard enough to break apart.

Dom goes down on his elbows between Arthur's legs, taking Arthur deep in his throat. His fingers make little circles on Arthur's skin. Arthur can’t get any purchase, so he’s just barely fucking Dom’s mouth, and saying, “Please please please,” less and less like words, digging into Dom’s thighs with his fingers until it hits him and he comes wailing.

He falls back hard, dizzy and panting, and says, “Sorry--didn’t warn you--sorry--”

Dom, amazingly, doesn't choke. He sits up, knees still planted on either side of Arthur. "It's fine," he manages. "Shit."

Arthur nods, and pats his thigh to say, _Thank you. Get off._

Dom rolls over gracelessly, landing hard on the blankets. "You okay?" he asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Arthur says. He thinks he sounds shaken. “That was good. Let me--” He rolls onto his side, halfway to getting up and giving Dom his turn.

"I've got it," Dom says, waving a hand at Arthur. He lies back on the blankets and wraps a hand around his cock.

“Dom,” says Arthur. He raises a hand, but he doesn’t quite touch. “Come on, let me do something for you.”

Dom eyes him. "Yeah, if you're good. Go for it."

Arthur exhales, relieved. He gets up on his hands and knees and crawls between Dom’s legs. It’s good. It’s good, what he’s got is amazing. He takes hold of Dom’s cock and get his mouth on him, relaxing his jaw to give as good as he got. 

Dom keeps his hands in Arthur's hair the whole time, and his eyes open. Partway through, Arthur thinks of Eames turning back to hug him, looking at him so gently Arthur didn’t know what to do, and for a second he thinks, _What the hell am I doing here?_

His partner, that’s what. His goddamned partner.

He’s ashamed. He moans around Dom’s cock because he knows that turns Dom on, lets himself take it a little deeper, runs his hands all over Dom’s body. Be here, be now. Be _here._

Before long, Dom's hands tighten in Arthur's hair and he comes with a groan, hips jerking. "Mm," he says when he gets his breath back. "That was nice, huh?"

Arthur, sitting next to him, leans on one hand and smiles at him. “Very nice,” he says. And it was. It was good. It was fine. Why can’t he shake this?

(The answer melts into his blood. He knows why.)

"I'm gonna crash for a little bit and then we're going swimming," Dom says, pulling one of the blankets over his face.

“Mm-hm,” Arthur says, because Dom always crashes for a little bit. He lies down comfortably close to Dom and pulls a piece of blanket over himself, and pretends he’s going to take a nap as well. He hears and feels Dom’s sleepy breathing next to him, and it’s soothing and familiar and good. Naps are good. Swimming. That’s good.

This, Arthur thinks, is his life. Not Eames. Not stolen minutes in hotels after jobs. Not anything on the side. This, with Dom. Going home from here to Mal and the kids. This is his life.

But he can feel Eames’s hands touching him so carefully, so gently. He can hear every word Eames said to him. _Here, darling. I’m here._ And he meant it. Arthur is sure he meant it.

Arthur didn’t know. Arthur didn’t know that someday Eames would like him. Arthur has been so used to feeling like this and knowing it’s safe because Eames would never love him back, and now maybe he does, and Arthur can’t think what he’s going to do.

He has Eames’s number. It’s here, in his wallet, begging him to call it. Dom is lying next to him, and it’s good, and this is his life. But Arthur has that number, and it feels like he’s been offered the key to the universe.


	18. 1.7 IN WHICH YUSUF BREAKS UP WITH EAMES (FINALLY)

Yusuf has already decided to break up with Eames before Eames comes home more googly-eyed over Arthur than ever before.

This time he puts his bags down and makes himself comfortable on the couch before talking about it.

"So," he says when he's drinking tea, "something happened with Arthur. And it's really changed how I think of him, but--I should probably tell you about it first."

Yusuf, who usually avoids being outright angry, if possible, because it doesn’t fit his temperament or turn things his way that often, is instantly outraged.

“Oh?” he says brightly. “What has happened with the wonderful Arthur?”

It is not Arthur’s fault, he thinks, that Eames is wretched. It _is_ Arthur’s fault, though, that he sleeps with Eames.

"We slept together," Eames says. "I mean, and it _worked_. I was just a little nice to him and he was crying." He sounds stunned. "I don't think he's got a lot else good going on for him."

Yusuf could have told him that months and months ago. Eames, who is a genius with people in a professional capacity, never seems to have any wits left over for those close to home.

“You make me want to cry too,” he says. “I can’t blame him.”

"I just wanted to tell you," Eames says. "Sorry. I am sorry. I don't usually do this sort of thing."

“What? Sleep with other people?” Yusuf says. “Of course you do.” He sighs. “You’ve turned that corner, though, haven’t you?”

"Not just sleep with people. Get--caught up," Eames says.

“Fall in love,” Yusuf says, since he’s fairly certain about that even if Eames isn’t. “I told you.”

"I'm not in love. But something's shifted. I'm sorry," Eames says. But he's not acting like someone who's _very_ sorry.

Then again, Yusuf doesn’t need him to be a bastard about this to say what he means to say.

“Eames,” he says, “we have to break up. I am breaking up with you.”

"Ah," Eames says. Then, "What? Really, though? I've said I'm not in love." He hesitates as if he knows that's the wrong thing to say. He surely knows that, doesn't he?

“You could be a little more upset!” Yusuf says. “But that’s not why I’m breaking up with you. And there’s no point lying to me, either. Why do people always assume that I’m stupid!”

Eames winces. "Not stupid," he says. "Just--casual about things."

“Well, I’m not Arthur’s biggest fan,” Yusuf says, “But I hope you’re happy being _casual_ with him. He’s likely much better than you deserve.”

"I'm not used to being the asshole," Eames says unhappily. "But I am. Sorry, did you say that's _not_ why you're breaking up with me?"

Yusuf is almost relieved that Eames isn’t going to argue. Yusuf is already certain, and while he wants to get this done, he doesn’t want to make it hard.

Yusuf says, “Yes, that’s right. I’m breaking up with you because, liar that you are, I still can’t trust you to keep me out of your messes.”

"Out of my--Did you meet him? When did you _meet_ him?" Eames is on his feet now, looking like a trapped animal. Yusuf knows, from being the one Eames has run to a dozen times, that Eames handles breakups very badly.

“He was looking for you, naturally,” Yusuf snaps. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about!”

Eames, who has never seen Yusuf properly angry, stares at him. "Oh. Then what are you talking about?"

“Your last bloody job,” Yusuf says. “The one before lovely Arthur. It wasn’t very clean, was it?”

"No," Eames says slowly. "You mean--oh, that job. Yes, it went a little wrong. How did you know that?"

“I don’t know, Eames,” Yusuf says witheringly. “How did they know where you live, when you’re not fucking unnaturally beautiful American mannequins?”

Eames goes white. "Oh no," he says. "Shit. Look, you came up when we were talking about chemists, and I made the mistake of saying I was staying with you, and where. That was when I was still on good terms with them. They were in the business. I thought it was safe." He looks Yusuf up and down as if checking that he's still in one piece.

“You were stupid,” Yusuf says. 

"Did they hurt you?" Eames closes the space between them.

“A little,” Yusuf says. “I thought they might kill my clients.”

"Jesus," Eames says. "Jesus, Yusuf. I'm so sorry."

“They’re fine,” Yusuf says. “They’re fine, if you want to know. I took care of it. I am now a lot poorer and have far fewer favors to call in, but everything is just fine. So nice to hear things are going well for you and Arthur, though.”

Eames swears under his breath, reaches for Yusuf, then apparently changes his mind and turns to pace the apartment. "I'm sorry," he says. "I fucked up."

Well, yes, and Yusuf expects that. But this is different from Eames being a little selfish or making a little misstep. It’s one thing to know you don’t excite the person you sleep with--that he doesn’t remember, all the time, to take you seriously. To know his need for you isn’t as desperate as his need for someone else’s boyfriend on the other side of the world. 

It’s another when you can become so much of an afterthought that he’ll heedlessly direct assassins to your bedroom in the middle of the damned night, with knives and guns and threats of violence that even Yusuf can’t quite shrug off.

“I never needed to matter the most,” Yusuf says. “But I needed to matter a little. I have to look out for myself, or no one will look out for my people. And if you can’t look out for me...” He shrugs. “It’s no good.”

"You're my best friend," Eames says shortly, his voice husky.

“I didn’t say that I don’t like you,” Yusuf says.

"I know," Eames says. "I just--I should have left it there. I clearly wasn't equipped to treat you properly in a relationship."

Yusuf would roll his eyes, if he weren’t so upset. Of course Eames would find a way to make thoughtlessness sound like some sort of insurmountable personal deficiency.

“I’m not going to berate you over what you should have done better,” Yusuf says. “But you do have to leave.”

"I know," Eames says. "And I'm sorry." He picks up his bag from the floor. He looks like he's going to say something else, but what else could he say, really? He nods to Yusuf and walks out the door, leaving his tea on the table.

It will be ridiculously unfair, Yusuf thinks, if Eames goes off and dates Arthur immediately, and doesn’t end up hurting from this at all. Yusuf has known for ages that something would end them. Yusuf is in the right.

It doesn’t seem right that it should bother him the most.


	19. 1.9 DON’T BE HEARTBROKEN NEAR MALLORIE COBB

Eames walks away from Yusuf and doesn't feel anything. He has Arthur to think about, and work. And it's not as if he and Yusuf were going to last, anyway. They were never in love.

All of that is a lie.

He manages to convince himself for about half an hour. The next week after that is almost unbearable. He's lost himself both his favorite boyfriend ever and his best friend. And his only real confidant. And of course it's all his doing, as usual. He cries in hotel rooms. He gets very drunk. He takes jobs and fucks them up. He does this for two weeks and he still can only think of calling Yusuf at the end of the day. Fuck Arthur. Even if it did turn into something, it wouldn't be worth this.

Then he gets a call he isn't expecting: Mal Cobb. She has a job for him, just the two of them, because she needs a good forger. He's so miserable he actually says yes.

“Wonderful, darling,” she says, and explains the job. It’s not inspiring--assuaging some rich old man’s fears over what some young woman thinks of him by rooting around in her dreams for a memory. They won’t even take anything specific back to him, just a confirmation of whether she does or doesn’t respect him. Pathetic stuff.

“We’ll go from the airport,” she says. “Get there by Tuesday afternoon, please.”

Which leads him to ask where he is meeting her. “London,” she says. “Heathrow.”

Eames almost hangs up on her. In any other circumstance, he would have. He doesn't do London. But what the hell, he fucked up massively and he doesn't deserve to avoid his problems this week. Maybe it's a sign. He confirms with Mal and goes to pack a bag. In the end, he doesn't even do that.

He shows up at the airport, looking like he hasn't slept, feeling hungover, and not at all prepared for a job.

Mal must have been lingering on this side of the security checkpoint since her own plane landed, because she’s waiting at his gate.

“Eames!” she says as she gets to her feet. She’s wearing a sundress and kitten heels and a snug ruddy-brown leather handbag with two curved little handles that hook over her wrist. She’s pulling a small suitcase behind her.

“Do you have luggage?” she asks. “I hope so. You are awful to look at.”

Eames laughs hollowly. "No luggage. God, you're stunning. If I were you, I wouldn't have my life."

Mal laughs. “Looks don’t make a life,” she says. “Come on. It’s time to catch a cab.”

Eames follows her in a daze. He wonders if he's still a little drunk, but no, he's probably just sad. "What am I forging, again?" he mumbles, when they're in the cab.

Mal clucks her tongue and nods up to the driver. “What if,” she says, “you tell me why you look like this.” She makes a ghastly face. “Either you have done something very bad, or your heart is broken.”

"Both," Eames says. "Fucking both." It's not as if he can tell her he slept with Arthur, he realizes. At least, probably not. No one has explained the boundaries of that relationship to him.

“Don’t tell me anything about the monster who broke your heart,” Mal says passionately. “Let me imagine him exactly how I want to.” Interesting how she assumes it’s a man.

Eames moans and leans his head on the window. "I hurt him. I cheated on him." Even though that's not completely true, or completely the problem.

“Ah, that is too bad,” Mal says. “But even God makes mistakes.”

He does not think that is a popular theory.

“Was it someone very lovely?” she says, with a small smile. “Was it someone worth the trouble?”

"Well," Eames says, still struggling with Mal's easy, dismissive attitude, "Right now I'm completely single and I've lost my best friend. So, no." _I need to get out of this conversation,_ , he tells himself.

“Well--that is very sad,” Mal says. “Very horrible for you. You know, Eames, I know a boy you might be interested in.”

The cab driver, who has been gruffly silent up until now, seems to hunch further into his seat. He turns the radio up.

“Not that I know everything about what you like,” Mal adds.

Eames wants to die. He wants to fucking die. He's in England in a cab with someone listening in and Mal is telling him about a boy. Jesus, Jesus, _Jesus_.

"Oh?" he says, strangled.

“Oh, yes,” she says, more and more coy. “Very pretty, and I can guarantee he is worth fucking, too.”

"Mal!" Eames yelps.

“ _What?”_ she says, laughing. “Am I lifting your spirits up? That’s all I want, you know.”

"Not in the damn cab," he snaps. And oh god, she's talking about Arthur. Does that mean he's allowed to have done it? How can he know? Did Arthur _mention_ it to her?

“All right,” she says, suddenly listless. “Let’s change the subject, then. Tell me how your trip with Arthur went. Last month. He barely ever said anything about it.”

Eames swallows. His throat is dry. He hasn't left himself any good way out of this situation, and again, he's to blame. "It was fine," he says.

“Fine, fine,” she repeats. “You both sound exactly the same. I did not think you liked each other at all, to begin with. Now it seems like he is always running off to catch you. He barely even needs us to hold his hands anymore.” She follows this with a laugh that grates Eames’s nerves.

"He's good to work with," Eames says, needled. "I don't need him sold to me."

Serene, Mal says, “Oh, Eames. I know exactly what Arthur is good for. And I think so do you.”

"He's a damn person," Eames says with feeling. Damn the cabbie, damn everything. "And yes, we slept together, because I fancy him. What about it?"

Mal is still smiling, but there’s something in her eyes that’s _exactly_ the reason Eames would have refused to work with her alone if he were any more himself.

“Really, Eames, I was only teasing you,” she says. “I’m _glad_ you are sleeping together. It’s nice to know Arthur has somewhere he can go to stretch himself.”

What does that _mean?_ Eames can't pick it apart. Never mind. Doesn't matter. "You aren't concerned I'll run off with him?"

The radio gets louder again.

“Darling Eames,” she says. “If I ever thought he would leave us I would be very angry with you. But that will never happen.”

Eames wants to open the door of the cab and jump out. His chest aches with how much he misses Yusuf, and with how much he wishes Arthur were here. "I never intended to involve myself," he says, forcing his voice not to shake. "But now I have, and I've got exactly nothing out of it. Fantastic."

“ _Well_ ,” Mal says. “Don’t take it out on me, darling. I know romance is painful, but we’re going to make it all a little better with some nice work, aren’t we?”

Eames doubts it. He hopes, against all appearances, that the job is difficult and complicated. "I'll probably fuck it up," he says, honestly.

“I won’t let you fuck it up too badly,” Mal says, without a scrap of doubt in her voice. She tilts her head back to peer out the window behind her. “It’s not just you, though, you know.”

"Oh?" Eames says hollowly. "Good to know you thoroughly briefed me on the phone." He wants to get the hell out of the country. He wants to go back to Mombasa.

“No no,” Mal says. “Not for the _job_. It is only us for the _job._ ” She pauses. “But if Arthur didn’t have a little crush, he wouldn’t chase you halfway around the world, picking up jobs as excuses to see you. Would he?”

Eames shivers, completely against his will. "I know he--I mean, we seemed to gel, last time." That's all he's damn well saying to her about that. But miserable though he is, he feels a little flare of excitement in his chest. If he shuts his eyes, he can see the tears on Arthur's lashes.

“I see,” Mal says sweetly. “Does he give in to you very beautifully?”

Eames leans forward and presses his forehead against the seat. "Look, mate," he tells the cabbie, "just put me out here and I'll walk."

The cab stops very abruptly. Horribly, Mal is already stuffing a great wad of cash into the driver’s hand.

“And tip,” she says. “You’re so sweet to put up with us.”

Eames swears and topples out of the cab, grateful that he doesn't have any luggage. He starts walking away before Mal collects hers. He doesn't think he can do this job without a drink first.


	20. 2.10 ANOTHER SCENE: AFTER EAMES AND MAL HAVE THEIR FUN CAB RIDE

Eames told himself he was utterly done with Arthur, Dom, and especially Mal. He can get plenty of other jobs, and he can't afford the stress. When she calls him, though, it's from a number he doesn't recognize, and he makes the mistake of picking up.

And then she tells him there's a job, and Arthur would really, _really_ like for him to come along.

He hangs up the phone and swears and swears. Then he books his plane ticket.

This time, he shows up perfectly coiffed and wearing a suit that cost around a thousand pounds. He meets them in the lobby of the expensive hotel where they're all staying.

As in pretty much every hotel with a lobby worth mentioning that Eames has ever been to, there’s at least one rectangular configuration of two couches, two chairs, facing in at each other over a hideous coffee table, like the hotel staff expect a small conference is about to drape itself across the public eye. 

There they are, all three of them, Dom sitting in a low red armchair with Mal perched on the wide, flat arm, Arthur sitting at the near end of the sofa next to them. Eames sees them before they see him. The last time he saw Mal, she tried to destroy him in the presence of a London cabbie. The last time he saw Arthur--

But at least Arthur hasn’t used the phone number.

"Evening, all!" he calls. He's been playing someone slightly more upbeat than himself for the past two weeks, and he's not ready to let go of it. He can't even look at Mal without flushing a little, though. He can see Dom look up and smile with relief that Eames is presentable.

Arthur’s eyes dart up to meet him as soon as he shouts. Arthur is his immaculate self, in vest, tie, and shirtsleeves, with a jacket hanging off the back of the couch behind him. Arthur is unreadable. But unreadable or not, once he catches sight of Eames, he doesn’t look away. It’s almost like being drawn in by a tractor beam.

Eames expects to panic, at least internally, at the attention. Instead, he feels an overwhelming sense of relief. Arthur likes him. They're going to do a job together. "Well, hello," he says, beaming at Arthur, despite Mal's eyes on him.

“Hi,” Arthur says. He doesn’t give anything away, but that could just be the Cobbs sitting right here. Eames doesn’t think Arthur ever got over that thing with the sled dogs.

Dom looks irritated and baffled, so at least he knows he's being left out of something. "Good to see you're doing well for yourself," he tells Eames.

Eames has turned up looking a variety of different ways over the course of their relationship, usually having very little to do with how he's doing. "I had a few good solo jobs," he says. "Nice to be back with a team again."

It’s been two months since Yusuf broke up with him--a little more than one since that harrowing job with Mal. She looks terribly pleased with herself, as if the intervening weeks haven’t done anything to dilute her pleasure at making Eames extraordinarily uncomfortable. 

“It’s so nice to see _you,_ ” she says. “After last time I didn’t know if you would come back no matter how I asked.”

Something about the way she says it works itself down inside his brain and makes him wonder. Arthur damn well better have asked for him. "Oh, I thought we made a good team," he says. They would have, actually, if Eames hadn't been such a mess.

“We got the job done,” Mal acknowledges, with her sweet, creaky syllables. “And now we’ll get another one done. And you look so much better prepared this time!”

Eames can never tell if she's being deliberately cruel or if that's just her sense of humor.

"Yeah, I heard you had some trouble last time," Dom says.

Oh good. She probably tells him absolutely everything.

“I didn’t,” Arthur says, a beast from the deep stirring in its slumber.

Eames reminds himself that he looks fantastic. "We did a job in goddamn bloody London last month," he says. "It wasn't pretty. I don't like London, my head wasn't in it, and Mal likes to tease too much." A little too much honesty, there. But he's so glad to see Arthur that none of this can spoil his mood.

“Poor Eames had a breakup,” Mal says. “But I guess you’re feeling a little better.”

Something-- _something_ \--happens in Arthur’s expression. It would be so much easier if the Cobbs would just get up and walk away for a few minutes. (Or forever. Forever would be fine.)

"Coffee," Eames says quickly. "Tell me this hotel has decent coffee, Arthur." Maybe, he thinks, he won't return from his search for coffee. Maybe he'll vanish and they'll never hear from him again.

“Decent,” Arthur says. “Place on the corner’s better.”

Eames really doesn't want to explain about Yusuf in a coffee shop, but he wants to get out of here. "I'm going there," he says. "You should join me. Back in twenty." Dom looks like he's about to protest.

“We have time,” Mal says. “And they’re friends, you know.”

Maybe she doesn’t tell him everything?

Arthur looks from Eames to them and back, then slowly stands up and snags his jacket from the back of the chair. 

“This way,” he says.

Eames follows him out the door. He feels like he has a lot to explain, and not just about Yusuf. They left things in a very strange place last time. Good, but strange. "Things've been dull without you around," he says. Safe ground.

“That’s not how it sounds,” Arthur says. He hangs a left past the lion statues.

Eames winces. "Look," he says. He doesn't have anything to follow it up with. Why shouldn't he have been seeing someone? Arthur is. And why shouldn't he have had a breakup? That's all very normal.

“Yusuf, isn’t it?” Arthur says. He leads them up the sidewalk.

"Uh," Eames says. He almost trips.

“Sorry,” Arthur says. He shrugs himself into his jacket and points at the end of the block. Across the narrow two-lane street there’s a sign with a coffee bean on it, being cradled in the hands of what looks like a wallaby.

"So you're a better detective than I am now," Eames says. "I've broken it off with him." He winces. "No, sorry, he's broken it off with me." Maybe this information won't be interesting or useful to Arthur. He's so hard to read.

“Sorry,” Arthur says again. “You’re all right, though?”

"Sad," Eames says. "But it's all right. It was the right move on his part."

Arthur nods. They reach the end of the street. There’s just enough traffic that crossing against the light seems like a bad idea.

"I hope I didn't cause you any trouble," Eames says after a second. "With the Cobbs, that is."

“You mean sleeping together?” Arthur says. “Mal doesn’t mind.”

"And Dom doesn't know?" Eames finishes.

“Not that I’m aware,” Arthur says, somewhat stiffly. The light changes, and they cross the street.

"Well," Eames says with forced cheerfulness, "that means we can keep doing it."

“I can understand why you’d want to keep it professional,” Arthur says. “Considering Yusuf.”

What did Arthur and Yusuf say to each other? Was Arthur really that desperate to find Eames? Eames is not going to ask. He has his pride. "There's nothing to consider," he says. "He broke up with me, remember?" He feels a horrible pang when he thinks about it too hard. He's never going to get his best friend back.

“Right,” Arthur says, after a pause. “You want coffee?”

"Please," Eames says with feeling. With any luck, in a half hour he'll be so keyed up from the caffeine that he won't be able to feel things anymore.

Arthur goes first through the wallaby door and holds it for Eames. He’s acting more like cardboard than ever, and after Eames thought they’d done so well the last time. 

Eames orders something with caramel syrup and extra espresso, which, although he'd never tell Arthur this, is his actual drink of choice, unattached to any role. He finds a table in the corner and sits. "I'm not ready to walk back just yet," he says. He wonders if there are any cracks in Arthur's armor, or of it's a lost cause.

Arthur sits down across from him, stirring the milk into his Americano. He’s watching Eames the way he did in the hotel. What the hell is wrong with him?

"What?" Eames demands. Realizing it sounds a little harsh, he adds, "What're you thinking about?"

“I’d like to know where we’re at,” Arthur says, after a brief silence.

Eames wishes he knew. He's not even a hundred percent sure where _he's_ at, but he's much more so since seeing Arthur.

"Well," he says, "I like you a lot. Still. In case that was unclear."

“Two months is long,” Arthur says. “Lately.”

"Too long," Eames says. "Mal said you wanted me for this job and I came running. So that's where I'm at, if it helps."

There it is. A little slip in his expression. A little something like what he saw in that hotel room, two too-long months ago.

“That’s good to know,” Arthur says. His hands are wrapped around his coffee cup.

"Where the hell are you at?" Eames asks mildly.

“Sorry,” Arthur says. There’s been too much of that, in this conversation. Eames can’t remember if that’s something that comes and goes with the Cobbs’ tempers, or if it’s a separate issue.

Arthur says, “Honestly, I thought I scared you off.”

Eames forgets, sometimes, that he's actually almost as good at hiding his feelings as Arthur is. He makes a mental note that that's unhelpful in a scenario where he's experiencing mutual attraction. "No," he says. "No, that was--lovely."

Arthur blinks, and shifts in his seat. “That’s good,” he says. “That’s good, because I thought you finally liked me all right, and then you were gone. I thought I seriously misread. I mean, I get it now. No worries.”

_No worries_. Eames has never met anyone else who can feel things so intensely and make it seem like he's a robot. "I've liked you for ages," he says. What a way to say it, in a coffee shop, after all this time. But Arthur deserves something.

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Well, then.” He sips his coffee. When he sets it down again, Eames can see that he looks happy--quietly all lit up. Maybe it should matter that this is the face of someone who’s dating not one, but two other people, and has yet to give a name to what he’s doing with Eames. But he looks so happy, knowing Eames likes him.

"And," Eames says bravely, "what we did last time? Was incredible." He stops short of telling Arthur how it feels to make someone you care that much about feel that good.

“We’re not going to be able to go back to the hotel,” Arthur says quietly, looking somewhere past his coffee, maybe into the table itself, “until I stop blushing.”

It sounds like a joke, but his ears really are red.

"Then we won't be able to go back at all," Eames says, "because I intend to make you keep blushing." And he slides his foot up Arthur's leg under the table.

Arthur startles and says, “Jesus, Eames,” which is relatively low key beratement.

"How rude of me," Eames says. "I haven't even given you a kiss hello. Not in this damn coffee shop, though." He stands up and offers Arthur a hand. He doesn't know the city well, but he's sure he can find someone they'll both feel comfortable. If not, he's going to kiss Arthur in the middle of the street.

Arthur stands up without taking the hand and raises his eyebrows. “You really think there’s time for dalliance?” he says.

"I really think I'm going to pass out if we don't dally a little," Eames says.

Arthur considers him over the cafe table.

“Fine,” he says. “But I’m making up the excuse for why we took so long. Damned if I let you say anything.”

"Mal will know anyway," Eames says, with an unhappy little shiver. "Come on."

Eames quickly finds them a little park a few streets over. There's nobody there at this time of day, and there are a few little clumps of leafy trees to hide them from view. Eames tugs Arthur toward one of these.

"Doesn't it make you feel like a teenager?" he says.

“It really does,” says Arthur. He puts his coffee on the ground.

So Arthur was once a teenager. How gratifying to know. Eames pulls him in among the trees and cups his face with his hands.

"Hello," he says. And he kisses him.

There’s no magical thing where Arthur goes all limp and weepy--it’s probably better there isn’t. But Arthur does, through some kind of alchemy, make them fit together perfectly while barely touching. He tightens his hands on Eames’s shirt collar and sighs softly into his mouth.

A soon to be wrinkled shirt collar. What a suit to wear for making out behind a bunch of trees in a park.

Eames shuts his eyes and leans into the kiss. He catches Arthur's elbow and squeezes. If he keeps going, they're never going back to that hotel.

Arthur pulls back. “Is that seriously all you wanted?” he says.

"What I wanted would take a lot more time than what we have," Eames says. "But yes, I did want that very much."

“All right,” Arthur says thoughtfully. He begins to straighten himself out. “Are you staying at the hotel?”

"Yes," Eames says. "Come visit me in my room later?" Did he really think he was going to walk away from _this?_ Thank god Arthur's smarter than he is, or thank god Mal's more pushy.

“Seems like a possibility,” Arthur tells him. “Let’s just get through the workday first, though, shall we?”

"Well, of course," Eames says. God damn it. It's going to be a long, long day.

~

The day is long, but not in the way Eames expected. They completely botch the job, in part because they just don’t get in tune with one another this time, and in part because Arthur brought them not just incomplete but _wrong_ information. It takes them too long to figure out what’s happened, and in that time, the subject figures out what’s happening to _her_ , and the whole thing goes to hell.

It’s clear by the time they leave the scene that probably no one will try to kill them for this, not their employer or their mark, but it’s a bad business just the same. Everyone is silent, riding back to the hotel in their shared van. Eames is stuck in the rear with Cobb, looking at the back of Arthur’s head while Cobb sits in an unnerving simmer to his left.

Eames summons up the courage to try to defuse the tension. "Well," he says, "that could have been worse. At least we got paid half up front."

Cobb gives him the coldest, nastiest look he's seen turned on him in a good twenty years.

Mal says, “I wish you wouldn’t talk, my head hurts.”

Arthur is perfectly still.

"We--"

"Shut up," Cobb snaps, and Eames does. It's almost a gut reaction. They ride the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.

When they arrive, Eames considers just fleeing to his room, but he feels like he should say something to Arthur.

"Look, sometimes they just go like that," he says, catching Arthur's elbow on the way inside.

“I’m not reassured,” Arthur says, pulling free. 

He might say something else, but Mal says, in a hurt voice, “I want to go to my room and rest.”

"I think our business is done, Eames," Dom says. He jerks his head at Eames and strides off, with Arthur caught in his wake.

Eames wants to go after Arthur and explain that everyone fucks up, but the three of them are already in the elevator. Deflated, he goes back to his room to pack. Shame about the rest of the money. And getting a job wrong is always disappointing.

But most of all, he can't imagine just leaving Arthur. He came all this way. Maybe he'll just go and see if Arthur will at least come out with him somewhere and cheer up.

He walks down the hall, and he's about to knock on their door, when he hears raised voices.

"Incompetent!" That's Dom. "You want to tell me how the hell that happened?"

Eames takes a breath and holds it.

“I checked,” comes Arthur’s voice. “I checked. There weren’t any red flags.”

"You didn't check well enough!" Dom shouts. "You didn't do your job!"

Eames lets his breath out and leans on the wall next to the door. He already knows he's going to stay and listen.

“People screw up, Dom!” Arthur says. “And I _checked_. I went over everything twice. The guy who _hired us_ told us--”

"Idiot!" Eames hears something crash--sounds like a glass being thrown. "And not only that, you make us look bad in front of Eames?"

Eames suddenly wishes he were elsewhere.

Mal--he hadn’t known she was there, but he could have guessed--Mal says, “He thinks he can do anything in front of Eames without a consequence. He thinks Eames is wrapped around his finger.”

“I don’t think that,” Arthur says.

“Don’t lie to me,” Mal says, in a dangerous whine. “I know what you think. I know what you do.”

"Well, what the hell?" Dom demands. "What does that mean?"

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Arthur says.

“Slut,” says Mal.

Eames covers his mouth. He feels sick and awful, but he can't tear himself away.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Dom says, voice rising. "Of all the times to find this shit out! What's your goddamn excuse, Arthur, you were too busy thinking about fucking him to focus on the job? I thought you weren't going to cheat?"

“I know, I’m sorry,” Arthur says. “I didn’t mean--it just happened.”

“ _Just happened,_ ” Mal says. “Over and over. Didn’t it? You’d do it again, wouldn’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t have anything, no good excuse. He has to answer with something, but nothing makes them stop. Eames has never heard Arthur sound like this before. It’s horrible to listen to.

They go back and forth for a bit, Dom screaming terrible things while Arthur retreats, Mal interjecting one or twice. Nothing else is thrown, and no one aims any blows, that Eames hears.

It doesn’t make Eames feel any better.

"That's it," Dom says. Eames can hear him walking from one end of the room to the other. "You don't get any more responsibilities till you can figure your shit out. And that includes Eames and how to do your fucking job."

“What the hell does that mean?” Arthur says. His voice has dropped until Eames can barely hear him.

"You're off jobs for two months," Dom says. "We don't need any more screw-ups. Mal and I are going to do a job in LA. You can do what you want. I was going to take you, but clearly you have other priorities."

“That’s ridiculous,” Arthur says, so damn quiet.

"It is," Cobb says. "It really fucking is."

Eames is acutely aware that one of them might leave the room at any moment, but he's frozen with horror. He didn't know it was like this. Even if today is the only time it is, that's too many times.

“We’re very lucky, Arthur,” Mal says. “Do you know that? Do you know what they could have decided to do to us? On either side? We could have been _killed_ because of you.” The vulnerability in her voice gives way to a rough twist, right at the end, that makes Eames’s skin crawl.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says “I am. I’m sorry I screwed up. I’m sorry about Eames.”

"You know I don't do sorry," Dom says. "Just do better next time."

Eames waits a second to be sure nobody is going to hit Arthur. Then he flees back to his room and buries his face in his pillow until he stops feeling sick. He should get up and pack, but instead he just lies there until he falls into a miserable half-sleep.

~

Eames would not have been surprised if Arthur didn’t come to see him after all. But Arthur does. It’s a thumping knock on the door, with no accompanying call of “housekeeping.”

Eames jolts upright, fumbles the lights on, and opens the door a crack, his gun in his hand.

"Oh," he says breathlessly. "Oh, Arthur, come in." He clears his throat and tries to wake himself up the rest of the way. He finds that he's looking for bruises and tells himself to stop. He puts the gun down.

Arthur nods and steps inside.

“It’s later,” he says. “I came by.”

"I'm glad," Eames says. He pauses. He can't think what to say. "You all right?"

Arthur shrugs. “Like you said,” he says. “Sometimes jobs go wrong. It’s okay.”

He can't believe how expertly Arthur has papered over the raging storm in the other room. He's not a robot; he's just an _incredibly good liar._ Better than Eames. "Arthur," he says.

Arthur quirks up an eyebrow. “Eames,” he says.

"I know Cobb wasn't too happy with you," Eames says. "I just wanted to let you know I'm not upset it didn't turn out."

Arthur nods. “I’m sorry, though. It happens, but it was my fault.”

"I don't mind," Eames says. "I've made a much worse mess of jobs." He grabs Arthur's shoulder and squeezes it, wishing he could convey how upset he is for him and how much better Arthur deserves to be treated. "I didn't make it worse, did I? By being there?"

“No, no,” Arthur says. 

"Good," Eames says firmly. "Because I want to be here." He can't think of anything else safe to say, so he pulls Arthur into a hug instead.

“Right,” says Arthur, into his shoulder. “Continuing from the park?”


	21. 2.12 OKAY NOW WE”RE BACK TO THAT BIT WHERE EAMES IS ALL holy shit and arthur is all everything is fine here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sex

Eames is caught by surprise. "I wasn't sure you'd still be in the mood," he says. But thank God Arthur is, because all he wants right now is to touch him, if only to reassure him that somebody cares for him a great deal.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Arthur says. “I’m asking?”

"I won't make you ask again," Eames says. He kisses Arthur, trying to be in the moment and not worry about how much worse the situation is than he ever even imagined. If Dom and Mal can talk to Arthur like that, they have no right to him.

His worry makes him kiss hard, wrapping his arms around Arthur and pulling him tight like a protective bear. Never mind he’s no bigger than Arthur is, he can _feel_ bigger. Arthur fits right into his arms. Arthur is still and kisses carefully, the way he used to.

Eames brings his hands up to muss Arthur's hair, running his fingers through it. Arthur isn't a robot. Arthur is a person with feelings, and now that Eames can see that, he can't stop seeing it. It hurts. He closes his eyes and holds onto him.

“Are you broken?” Arthur says eventually.

Eames has to clear his throat before he can speak. "Broken? Why would I be?"

“You’re just standing here,” Arthur says. “It’s just a question.” He looks wary.

Eames realizes he can't possibly tell Arthur what he overheard. Arthur would be humiliated. He's so private. "Well," he says. "You know. That job and all. I don't want to push, if you weren't feeling up to more."

“It’s just a job,” Arthur says. “Listen, if you don’t want to--”

"I want to," Eames says. "Consider it forgotten and come find out how awful this hotel bed is." He grabs Arthur's hand and tugs him toward it.

Arthur smiles and lets himself be tugged.

“I told you this suit would be a mess by the end of the day,” he says. He reaches out and loosens Eames’s tie. He sighs when it comes off, like he’s really undressing himself instead of Eames.

"The way you move--" Eames shakes his head. "I love it. Go on, ruin my suit, darling."

He sees Arthur shiver. “I can’t,” he admits, but he’s breathless and lovely and staring at Eames’s clothes like they’re the mysteries of the cosmos, waiting to be solved by his fingers. He kisses the bare skin behind every opened button, going straight to Eames’s pants without pushing his shirt onto the floor. 

“You’re meant to wear an undershirt with that,” Arthur mutters into Eames’s stomach. His fingers work open Eames’s fly, and he pulls Eames’s pants down with a neat little jerk. His mouth is _right fucking there._

"Well, Jesus Christ," Eames says with feeling. "You are so perfect." It's partly meant as an antidote to the Cobbs, but it's mostly just how Arthur is making him feel. He gets his hands in Arthur's hair again and tugs a little.

Arthur looks up at him, his heavy breaths hot against Eames’s cock.

"Beautiful," Eames tells him, looking him in the eye. "I can't believe I stayed away this long."

Arthur shuts his eyes with a sigh, puts a hand on Eames’s cock, and slides his mouth over the tip, and sucks.

Eames slams his fist against the mattress. He keeps his hands in Arthur's hair, feeling free to be a little rough, but only as much as Arthur likes. He feels like he's holding on to Arthur at the same time he's being held.

Arthur is diligent and focused, and his mouth is hot and tight. He moans into Eames’s cock, jerking his head. His hands scrape Eames’s hipbones and slide between his thighs.

"Oh my god," Eames says under his breath. "Yes, you're brilliant. Oh, you're going to lose your mind when it's my turn." He arches his back and gasps whenever Arthur touches him somewhere new.

Arthur pulls back just long enough to say, “Do you want to come from this?” His face is flushed and his eyes are bright and Eames has completely messed up his hair, but otherwise, somehow, he still looks pristine. 

"Oh, god," Eames says inarticulately as Arthur’s mouth slides back over him. "Not if you'll let me fuck you."

Arthur leans away thoughtfully.

Eames groans. "Yes, no? You're killing me."

Arthur gets to his feet with his eyes still on Eames, and throws himself into a kiss that feels like a current. Ocean, electric, whatever, it’s long and sweet and hungry. His arms are wrapped around Eames’s neck like he’s drowning. 

Eames clings back, hands on Arthur's waist. He whispers endearments into Arthur's mouth, unable to stop. He pulls up just short of _I love you._ Leave it, examine it later. After a minute, he gathers his wits just enough to undo Arthur's pants. "Take them off,” he manages.

Arthur kicks off his shoes and strips from the waist down, watching Eames as he reaches for the top button of his vest.

"Actually, leave it on," Eames says. "You look so nice like that." He hooks his fingers in the buttons of Arthur's vest and gives him another kiss.

Arthur makes a surprised little noise into his mouth and shivers under his hands.

"On your back so I can see your face, please," Eames says. He pushes Arthur down firmly and pauses to get a condom out of his bag. Every time he looks at Arthur, the Cobbs’ words echo in his head, and it makes him even more determined. He kneels between Arthur's legs and bends to kiss him.

Arthur tilts his head up and lets Eames in, his arms around Eames’s shoulders, fingers pressing into his back. Eames feels Arthur’s legs tighten against his waist. How could anyone say things like that to someone like this?

Eames makes sure to keep dropping in pet names and endearments while he fucks Arthur. Partway through, he realizes he's close to tears with how much he _feels_. He has to kiss Arthur until he regains his composure. He wraps his fist around Arthur's cock when he feels himself getting close. "All right, love?" he asks.

“A little more touch,” Arthur says, in a quiet, shaking voice. “Can you just--I want to feel--” He shifts, and Eames nearly moans with the way Arthur’s body moves around his cock. 

So he fucks Arthur harder, touching him everywhere he's learned Arthur is sensitive. He kisses and kisses his throat, letting his hand stray to Arthur's cock again. Arthur's whole body is so hot under him, and he _does_ look good in the vest. He rolls his hips and slams into Arthur, faster and faster, jerking him off and kissing him until his lips are swollen.

Arthur tries to keep a grip on him, but by this time he’s weak and wild and boneless, and he just claws at Eames’s arms and sobs into the air.

“Please, please, let me, I just,” he gasps out. There are tears on his face and he’s flushing down to his shoulders.

Eames drags his thumb across the tip of Arthur's cock at the same time he pushes even deeper inside him. The look on Arthur's face is enough to push him over the edge, gasping and shaking. Arthur’s hand jostles past Eames’s and he jerks himself off the rest of the way, coming with a sob a few seconds after Eames. The way he breathes when they’re done is loud and painful.

Eames eases out gently and rolls over next to Arthur. "You all right?" he asks, when he gets his breath back. Arthur nods, still gasping. One of his hands is clenching and unclenching against the blanket.

Eames takes a chance and wraps his arms around Arthur, adjusting him so their bodies fit together again. "Good," he says quietly. Arthur should always look like this. He should never have any reason to look another way.

Startlingly, Arthur presses back against his chest, his arms tangled in Eames’s. His breathing quiets down.

"I'm not letting go," Eames whispers, quietly enough that Arthur might not hear him.

“That’s all right,” comes softly back. “I’ve got the room for the night. It’s only me anyway.”

They left him.

Eames buries his face in the back of Arthur's neck to avoid cursing. He'd almost forgotten to be angry.

But it’s worth burying the anger: in a few seconds, Arthur extracts himself from Eames’s grip to undo his vest and his shirt.

“Didn’t feel right,” he says when they’re unbuttoned, then--facing Eames!--he tucks his head against Eames’s shoulder and slips an arm around his waist.

He stays with Eames all night.


	22. 10.2 A SCENE WHERE EAMES HAS OPINIONS ABOUT COBBS PRE-PARIS

Eames and Arthur have long hit a sort of unspoken stride. Sometimes Eames joins Arthur and the Cobbs on jobs, sometimes he or Arthur asks the other on a job without them. Once in a while they even work with other people, and then Eames has the fascinating experience of working out what it is that other people see when they look at Arthur. 

Through it all, they reveal a disappointingly meager amount of information about themselves--in fact, in that way, Arthur might well be Eames’s greatest failure. But what Eames does notice, over time, is that things seem like they’re getting worse. Not between the two of them. But on the four person jobs. And in the way Arthur looks when he turns up, sometimes out of nowhere.

Sometimes he calls first, and Eames already knows, when Arthur uses his private number, what he’ll look like when he arrives. Such as just now.

“Hey,” Arthur says. The background of the call is noisy.

"Hey," Eames says, after a second of contemplating hanging up. He doesn't want trouble. But if Arthur's trouble, it's not his own fault. "What can I do for you?"

“I find myself temporarily free,” Arthur says. “I thought if you were up to anything good, I’d come and butt in.”

Arthur always chooses his words so carefully. Like he doesn't really care what Eames says.

"I have a job," Eames lies. He can certainly have one by the time Arthur arrives. "I could always use an extra pair of hands."

A pause. 

“Where are you?” Arthur says.

"Chicago," Eames says.

“Oh,” says Arthur. He sounds happily surprised. “That’s good. I can get there in--” A long pause. He must be looking at something. “Six hours, maybe? A little less?” There’s a booming female voice in the background of the call, like something is being announced on an intercom.

Arthur isn't even at home. Eames tries to run through a series of reasonable explanations, but he just keeps coming up with the fact that Arthur is willing to drop everything and travel six hours to see Eames. Things must not be good.

"I'll text you the address," Eames says.

“Great,” Arthur says. “I’ll let you know my ETA as soon as I’m on a plane.”

Eames hangs up and goes to find them a job.

He's back at his hotel room, attempting to tidy up, when Arthur arrives. He just has a black bag slung over his shoulder, and he’s a little dressed down from usual. He looks like a goddamned marble statue of serenity.

“Hey,” he says, when Eames opens the door.

"Well, come in," Eames says. "Don't you look charming today?" He does. But Eames can feel something else bubbling under the surface, the way Arthur always seems when he shows up on very short notice.

“How have you been?” Arthur says, lowering his bag to the floor. “Well?”

"Fine," Eames says. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

“Oh, you know,” Arthur says. “Needed to be out of each other’s hair a little. I didn’t think you would mind.”

"I don't mind," Eames says, frowning. "You do live there, don't you?" He knows Arthur does.

Arthur says, “Yeah, I live there.” Very casually. “Can I borrow a glass? Airplane ginger ale wasn’t cutting it.”

"Yeah," Eames says. "There's a minibar. And water." He watches the way Arthur moves for a tell-tale sign of what really landed him here. Nobody takes off with zero notice for a whole different state because they need a little space.

“Cheers,” says Arthur. He grabs a glass from the sink and fills it with water three times, downing all of it. He looks at Eames. “Ahhh,” he says, and puts the glass down. “Water.”

Eames looks at him incredulously. "So, you're not going to share anything at all about why you had to fly all the way out here?"

Arthur looks around himself and sits on the edge of the chair that’s tucked into the blocky hotel desk. “There’s nothing to tell,” Arthur says. “What are you worrying about, Eames?” He looks like he regrets framing his rebuff as a question as soon as it’s out of his mouth.

"I'm worrying that if I hadn't picked up the phone, you wouldn't have had a place to put your head tonight," Eames says. Arthur can always get hotels, of course, but that's not the point. Not only did he need a place to stay, he wanted someone he knew. He's upset.

Arthur pauses, just a half second, then jumps in with, “I would’ve been all right.”

"Family squabble?" Eames asks casually. But that's not quite right. If he's not wrong, the Cobbs are a family, and Arthur is something else. Someone who has to come stay in Illinois. It's not a shock, but it's alarming.

Arthur looks at his hands and says, “We’re in each other’s space all the time. It’s normal to need some alone time.”

"As long as that's all," Eames says, shrugging. He isn't going to push it this second. He doesn't want Arthur to slither away. "Anything to eat?"

“I had a--yeah, sure,” Arthur says. He swallows, and for a second Eames can actually see how upset he is. 

"I've got half a pizza left," Eames says. "Still warm." He timed it deliberately. "Come sit over here and eat it."

Arthur comes over to the couch and sits down next to Eames. He levers a piece of pizza out of the box with a sigh. “It is warm,” he says. “Good, too. I don’t know. I try not to play pizza games, you know, one city against another. But there are some bad pizza cities. So this is nice.”

Eames's heart clenches. Arthur is sitting here chattering about pizza in such a charming way, and he's clearly in an intense amount of pain. What the hell have they done to him? "You could just stay here," he says. "You know, put down roots. Eat pizza, watch hockey, whatever it is people do."

Arthur looks startled, and maybe slightly afraid. “What?” he says.

"You know," Eames says. "Here, or anywhere. Is there a timeline for your little vacation? They have asked you back, haven't they?" Maybe it's cruel to push, but it's like picking at a scab.

Arthur is sitting with a piece of pizza in his hand, edges curled up. He stopped chewing when Eames started speaking. Now he swallows. He says, “I don’t know why you’re making something out of this.”

"I'm not," Eames says, "but it is something. It bothers me."

“ _What_ bothers you?” Arthur says. He puts the pizza down--just barely throws it down--with a little _thwap_. “I didn’t have to come here. I just thought it would be fun.”

"It will," Eames says. This would be his opportunity to back off. "But I just had to say something. I just think it's off, this whole sending you away thing. Or isn't that what happened?"

Arthur says, “It’s not a breakup, if that’s what you--” And then he shuts his mouth so hard Eames sees the muscles in his jaw jump.

"Easy," Eames says. "I'm just asking as a friend." Is that what he's asking as?

“Well, it’s fine,” Arthur says. “It’s fine. Things have just been a little--I just have to sort a few things out.” He’s trying to disappear, but Eames can see him so clearly.

"You wanted a break?" Eames asks gently. He doesn't think so.

Arthur says, “It doesn’t matter if I wanted a break, if someone else needs a break you give it to them.”

Eames wonders how often the Cobbs want breaks from Arthur. "A break with no plan for where you land? That's a bit dicey."

“I can take care of myself,” Arthur practically snaps.

Eames holds his hands up, now completely convinced that Arthur can't. "As long as things are fair all 'round," he says.

“What do you want me to say?” Arthur says, voice just a little too loud. “What are you trying to get out of this, Eames?”

"I just wanted to understand," Eames says. "I was checking on you, believe it or not." He knows now, though. He can see enough of the picture.

Arthur’s shoulders sag a little. “It’s really not a big deal,” he says. He’s said that about things in the past, and he’s managed to put a shine on it so bright that Eames can barely see through to the lie. It must be getting worse, because this time Eames doesn’t even begin to believe him. “Please let it go, all right? I’m here, aren’t I? Can we do something?”

"Yeah," Eames says. Hi throat hurts with unhappiness, so much that he can barely speak for a second. "Want to go out somewhere?"

Arthur looks at the pizza and says, “Yes. Please. Anywhere.” He gives Eames a look that, for a moment, almost contains a smile. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

"Oh, you're going to regret that," Eames says, forcing a smile back. "Change your shirt. Something more casual. Then you'll see." He makes himself drink a glass of water, just to clear his head. This is an awful situation, a horrifying iceberg suddenly revealed much more clearly, but he's going to get Arthur to laugh by the end of the night.


	23. 12.3 PUT A YUSUF SCENE: HE BANGS: BASED ON THE RICKY MARTIN SONG "SHE BANGS"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no sex, feverbeats just did this to the title for no fucking reason.

Things between Yusuf and Eames have been mostly back to normal for awhile--the kind of normal where they don’t sleep with one another, obviously, but their old intimate friendship. Eames still feels guilty and anxious, Yusuf thinks, because he doesn’t talk to Yusuf about Arthur and he still tries to do nicer things than usual. Like this, for example--a trip to Spain, Eames’s extravagant treat, to take in a completely illegal and underground dream expo. There’s a fifty percent chance of being killed any time you go under, but many of the people here are nice and Yusuf doesn’t go under at all.

"I'll even buy you a souvenir," Eames says, really playing up the French accent on the last word. He's walking next to Yusuf as they mingle on the second day, dressed to stand out--in a bright red jacket.

“Yes, please do, I’ll see how much I can smuggle through airport security,” Yusuf says. He has a little array of thoroughly cleaned miniature shampoo bottles waiting back at the hotel. He thinks he can managed adequate amounts of maybe five compounds, which will be plenty to play with. 

"You're a danger to yourself and others," Eames says companionably. "Oh, walk the other way for a bit, quickly." He grabs Yusuf's elbow and propels him in a different direction. "Plenty of people here I've worked with before."

“You’re a hazard to my health,” Yusuf tells him, and given the terms of their breakup, it’s not surprising to see Eames’s reaction to that.

"I warn you," Eames says mildly, but with genuine anxiety in his eyes, "I can only apologize so many times before it starts to feel a bit hollow."

“I’m not angry, Eames,” Yusuf says. “And honestly I’d rather you stop apologizing.”

"I'll save it for the next time I do something truly terrible, then," Eames says. He hasn't brought up Arthur a single time on this particular excursion. He stops to peer at a display of cloudy-looking chemicals watched over by a tall man in a hooded sweatshirt.

“Oh, let’s go over here,” says Yusuf, dragging him away by the elbow. When they have distance, he mutters, “Don’t trust that man, believe me.”

"Don't trust him?" Eames says, somewhere between amused and indignant. "As if you're better than this lot. Ha, and you call me a hazard."

“Fair enough,” Yusuf says. He chews on a thought and then says, “Eames, how are you? I know you’re trying to show me how splendid everything is, but all-expenses-paid dream work vacations coming from you are a little worrying, if I’m completely honest.”

"Hm," Eames says. He allows them to drift to the far end of the room, away from most people. "I've been doing well," he says. "On jobs. Lots of paydays."

As an ex-romantic partner, Yusuf absolutely shouldn’t ask about Eames’s feelings. As a person he’d rather not. As a friend, maybe he should?

“You’ve seemed well,” he says cautiously. “When I’ve seen you.”

"Ah," Eames says. "Well. It's complicated. You probably don't want to hear this at all."

“You don’t have to tell me, then,” Yusuf says. “Here, would you like to go to sleep in this nice woman’s chair and experience auditory hallucinations for the next three weeks? The sign says they sound like angels and you’ll just love it.”

Eames turns a baleful expression on Yusuf. "You chemists," he says. Then he shakes himself. "Anyway. I'm just worrying over someone. Hard to know what to do for someone who's in a bad situation and doesn't really seem to know it."

Yusuf decides to let the poor man have his charade for the time being. “How do you know it if they don’t even know it?” he asks. “Eames. Are you minding your own business?”

"LIstening at doors," Eames says, straight-faced.

“Through an upended glass, no doubt,” says Yusuf. 

Eames laughs. "I--I'm not going to subject you to more, all right? But that's how I am. Good jobs, lots of worrying. All and all, could be worse."

Yusuf could tell Eames that watching someone self-destruct is a sure path to heartbreak, but he is enjoying this trip and he doesn’t want to end it with Eames pensive, miserable, and perhaps fleeing to America. 

He says, “It’s good to see you caring about something.”

That stops Eames. He shoots Yusuf a sideways look. "I hope you don't think that's a first."

This isn’t really the place for it, but this is the place they’re at. 

Yusuf says, “If I thought you were heartless I wouldn’t be your friend, let alone ever have slept with you. But you must know what I mean.”

"Of course," Eames says, rallying. "And you're right, I do care. Too much, and it's going to get me into trouble, I can tell. Probably sooner rather than later. I won't call you about it until it's well over, I promise."

Yusuf wonders if Eames still thinks that he isn’t in love. He wonders, a little, if Eames thinks there will be an _over_ or if he’s just trying not to jinx it.

“Do you think you have a chance to be happy?” he says, and winces, because it sounds more scoffing than he means it to.

Eames grimaces and starts walking again. "That's a nice way to think of it," he says. "I don't know. It's hard to hang my hopes on someone who's got so much...else."

Yusuf feels a few old hints stir themselves up from the back of his mind and form a picture he doesn’t quite want to see. He says, “I’d rather not be your confidant about this, Eames. But if you need help--real help--call me.”

Eames nods. "Thank you. You're a good friend." And just like that, he's switching gears, throwing his arm around Yusuf, and steering them toward a woman with a fairly professional display of chemicals. "Let me buy you something."

“Of course,” Yusuf says, and because Eames does still owe him a little, he will.


	24. 1.11 MAL AND ARTHUR INTERACT BEAUTIFULLY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex: bad. Physical abuse.

It’s fighting with Dom that spurs her to look for Arthur. She’s left him alone all day, they both have. He likes his time alone. She cuts a slit in it and steps through, putting her head in at his doorway and saying, like everything is fine, “Arthur, my darling, there you are.”

Her heart is beating terribly. Her fingers itch, like they are just on the edge of becoming claws.

`Arthur looks up from his book and gives her a tired, curious smile. "Hey, Mal." He leaves his finger in the book, as if he expects to go right back to it.

Mal slips into the room. She leaves the door open. She has fantastic visions of Dom cooling off and coming to find her, and finding her here. She’s so angry that nothing sounds better than making Dom think that she’s not.

“I was thinking of you,” she says, with a twist of coy smile. “I haven’t seen you all day, and the children are with Dom. I was getting lonely.” And with that, she is committed.

"I thought you were with Dom," he says, but he's smiling. His finger is still in his book. Frustrating.

“Oh--” She flaps her hand dismissively. “He took the children out, I don’t know.” She comes closer, leans down enough to put her hand on Arthur’s book. She slides one finger down the open page. She doesn’t pull it out of his hand. “But if I am not with Dom, maybe I could be with you.”

"I was reading," he says, but his eyebrow goes up and he shifts his body toward her a little.

“Stop reading,” she says, laughing at the end of it. Dom called her manipulative. _Manipulative,_ for trying to do what is best for them and their children. She could scream, she is so angry. She tugs Arthur’s book out of his hands, instead, and throws it on the floor. “Let me take you apart,” she says, so gently that Arthur might even think she doesn’t mean it.

Arthur shivers and doesn't even look after his book regretfully. "I would like that," he says, and his voice hitches, a lovely little sound. He glances at the open door. "We should--"

“No one’s _home_ , silly boy,” she says. “And if Dom did come home, wouldn’t you like him to see you all laid out for me?”

Arthur makes that little expression that he often makes, that one of wanting to say yes and no at the same time. He ends up not saying anything.

Pleasure and disdain sing through Mal, and she grabs Arthur’s collar in her fist. 

“Get up,” she says. “And don’t worry about Dom.”

He gets up. He always does as he's told eventually. "I just don't want to step on any toes," he mutters. But his hands find her waist anyway. It's a little like he's holding her and a little like he's holding her off.

“Whose toes will you step on?” she chides him. “You belong to me, and I belong to myself. I can fuck you without Dom watching.” She leans in and bites him sharply in the neck. “Don’t you want me to?”

He takes a sharp breath. "I do," he says. "I want that. You're okay, right?" That's not what she wanted to hear. She takes his jaw in her hand and gives him a little shake.

“You’re making up problems in your head while I’m trying to share a good time,” she says. “Stop that, Arthur. Do what I tell you, my darling. Relax. Now, come on.”

She pulls his sweater over his head before he can answer her, tosses it to the floor, and starts in on his shirt buttons.

He lets her, but she can tell he's making up more excuses. Why should there be any excuses? "Whoa," he murmurs, but he leans in to make it easier for her. "Let's not lose any buttons this time," he says, giving her a small but brilliant smile.

“You and your clothes,” Mal says. She shucks his shirt onto the floor, after the sweater, and pauses to kiss him. It starts slow, with a light touch, but after a few seconds she lets her nails dig in and her teeth knock against his. She stops when she knows she’ll leave him gasping; He does gasp, and his cheeks are pink.

“I am going to strip you naked before anything,” she declares. A wave of anger at Dom surges through her, and for a moment, she can barely see with rage. She is going to tear Arthur apart and show Dom what’s left. Serves him right for treating her like she is irrational. Serves him right for leaving her with a plaything, if he didn’t want her to play. 

"God," Arthur whispers. His hands go to his belt automatically, and he hurries to get out of his pants. She loves to see how desperate she makes him. Everyone should be desperate.

“Good, good,” she says, and trips him onto his bed. He sprawls on his back and she rips his pants the rest of the way off him. She pulls her dress over her head and climbs up after Arthur, running her hands up his body. She says, “All of this for me. My sweet little Arthur, how should I use you?”

"Mal," Arthur says reprovingly. Pleadingly? She's not sure. Both options force her to swallow something sharp, which bursts into adrenaline. 

“Shh, shh,” she says. She keeps her expression soft. “Put your hands above your head. Be so good for me.”

He closes his eyes, frowning, caught up. "Be gentle." It sounds like a joke, almost. Mal seats herself between his legs.

“Would I ever hurt you?” she whispers. Then she reaches up and twists his nipple hard between her thumb and finger. 

He makes a sound like a swallowed scream. "Mal, oh my _god_."

“I’m sorry, sweetness--too hard?” she murmurs. But she’s flushing with satisfaction as she leans up to kiss him where she pinched. Her vision floods and her body tenses--she wants to hurt him again, worse, harder--but she can’t, she can’t, and she wouldn’t want to. Poor Arthur, he doesn’t deserve that.

“There,” she murmurs, kissing. “There, there, there. Arthur, I could eat you alive, you are so--I think the good word for it is scrumptious?” She breathes hot air against his soft, shivering throat. “I’m going to be so gentle you want to scream.” 

He swallows hard and nods. He always gets so _serious_ when they're in bed together. It's flattering. She never feels that he takes her lightly. He presses up against her body, arching his back. "Mal," he says under his breath. "God, you're so wild today." He sounds stunned.

“And what are you?” she purrs. “Tame?” She grips his neck and pours herself into a kiss, deep and ferocious. He moans into her mouth. She waits until he’s limp and pliable under her hands, then drags her nails down his sides. He gasps, and a white-hot need seizes her and claims the action of her hand before she can ever consider her options. She hits him across the face, so hard his skin turns instantly pink. 

He cries out, and maybe it's an attempt at her name, and maybe it's not. He looks up at her, confused. "What--?"

“Oh, my sweet, I’m sorry, I was swept away,” she says. She cradles his cheek and clucks her tongue, but what she thinks is that Arthur’s face is turning a darker red, and it’s probably going to bruise. She feels appalled, and elated, and then she thinks, _Let Dom look at that,_. She is churning. He’ll be so upset that Mal’s been careless and marked his darling Arthur, and Mal feels bloody and drunk over it. 

“I’ll put some cream on it later,” she adds. She puts Arthur’s hands to her lips and kisses his knuckles. “All right?”

Arthur nods up at her mutely. His whole body is trembling almost convulsively under her. His teeth chatter, until he clenches his jaw.

Mal very gently touches his face where she hit him, and watches him flinch.

“Shh, Arthur,” she whispers. “Don’t cry, all right? I’ll make everything good.” And she is very gentle then, even though inside she is electric. She runs her hands over his shivering skin, strokes his cock until he’s hard, and says, “Don’t move, my darling.”

She makes him keep his hands above his head while she fucks herself on his cock. He makes pleading noises, but she silences him with a look. Her hands wander across her own body while he watches, pale-faced. She slams herself harder and harder against his hips, rubbing her clit until she comes, furious and loud.

When the haze clears, she feels that Arthur is shaking and desperate under and inside her. 

"Please," he whispers. "Mal, please." His face is wet with tears. "Let me--give me--Come on." His voice is rough and seems to stick on each word. "I need you," he says.

She pulls off, slick and groaning. “I know, darling,” she whispers. “I know you do.” She lies down beside him. One hand wraps around his cock, the other catches the hair at the base of his head. She kisses him, long and low and sweet, while her hands twist and pull. 

He kisses back desperately, his hips jerking. He doesn't seem to dare move anything else. Soon she can feel his body go rigid, and he's screaming into her mouth as he comes.

He slumps back, gasping and reaching for her almost blindly.

“Hush,” she murmurs. She wipes her hand on his front and strokes his back. “Everything is all right, sweetheart. Shh, shh.”

"Are you okay?" he asks, improbably.

Mal laughs. “You make me okay, silly boy,” she says. “Now I am very good.” She’s not very good. She’s still angry at Dom. (Dom is not going to like that bruise at all, and it is most definitely going to be a bruise. She can see the blue in it already. She feels a sort of ocean calm about it--great movement beneath smooth waters.)

“Let me up now,” she says. “I need a shower, after that.”

He nods, still looking stunned. "Okay. Mal--thanks. I, yeah." He drags the sheet around himself and smiles at her.

She can’t take any more of that reaching-for-something look of his, smile or no, so she gets up quickly and pulls her dress over her head.

“My good boy,” she says, and smiles at him on her way out the door.


	25. 10.5 REWRITE KICKOUT FIGHT

Mal leaves, and Arthur’s left feeling senseless. He picks himself up, eventually, takes a shower--in his bathroom, and he doesn’t run into her--and cleans up his room, and settles back down with his book. He has trouble concentrating, because his face hurts and she doesn’t hit him, normally, so he feels--weird. Off. She hasn’t come back for him, either, and that’s all right, but it doesn’t help him shake the feeling.

Dom and the kids come home maybe two hours after Arthur and Mal have sex. Arthur listens to them get the kids ready for bed and disappear into their rooms. He hears voices, and then water moving in the pipes. Nobody’s come to find Arthur, still, and he hasn’t looked for them, either. Not even James and Phillippa. He can’t tell if he’s in a fight or not.

It could be, lately.

He tightens his fingers against the pages of his book and tries to find the sound of the water soothing. Eventually, the water stops. A few minutes later, Dom, his hair still damp, comes into Arthur's room without knocking.

"Hey," he says. His shoulders are tensed, and he doesn't quite look at Arthur when he says it.

“Hey,” says Arthur. “Did you guys have a fun day out? The kids must’ve been beat, they didn’t even stop by to say goodnight.”

"Yeah," Dom says "Yeah, they were tired." He takes a tentative seat on the very edge of the bed. "Listen, Mal's having a really rough day."

Arthur’s reaction doesn’t have any thought preceding it. He feels a little burst of anger and anxiety. He says, “We’ve been having a lovely day, actually.” It sounds a tad defensive.

"Yeah," Dom says. "She's upset about earlier. I get that you two are having some friction." He does this sometimes. Keeps talking as if Arthur hasn't said anything.

Arthur puts his finger in his book and his book between his knees and says, “No, Dom, we’re not. We had a perfectly nice day. What are you talking about?”

"Well, I think you're stressing her out," Dom says. "I think you two need a little break from each other."

The change of tone takes Arthur by surprise. He feels just a tremor of adrenaline, because he knows what is coming but he doesn’t _want_ to know just yet.

“Can you stop just saying that over and over?” Arthur says, and he tosses the book to the floor. Lightly. But so it’s out of the way. His comfortable little room feels suddenly too small.

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Dom says. "You know in the past we've all needed--vacations from each other." No. Arthur isn’t pathetic enough not to know this by now. They've needed vacations from him.

Arthur says mildly, “I don’t understand what you’re even talking about, and what the hell is this, anyway? You come home, you ignore me for an hour, and then you start in about oh, I’m stressing people out, time for a break? That’s a damned joke. Back up a little.”

Dom takes a deep breath. "Okay. Just--settle down, Arthur, would you? Mal and I talked about it earlier this week, and just now she let me know she really thinks it's time to change something."

The time frame shifts and Arthur loses all the balance he was keeping. He says, “Earlier this--what the hell is going on?” Tiramisu, Arthur’s little coffee and cream cat, is halfway through the door, but she hears Arthur’s voice and pauses there.

"I just think we all need a break," Dom says firmly. "Maybe a long one this time."

Arthur stares him down.

“This time,” he repeats. “You’ve been talking about this for a week?” 

"Yeah," Dom says. He shifts uncomfortably. "Look, this isn't a fun conversation for anyone. But I feel like Mal's been so tense lately, and maybe it would be easier to work some of that out without…" He gestures. "You know. Without you two ramping each other up."

“No one is _ramping_ anyone,” Arthur says. He feels like this sometimes, like Dom’s half of the conversation is with someone Arthur doesn’t know, whose life Arthur hasn’t lived. “What the hell are you talking about, Dom?”

"Sometimes this house isn't big enough for three people's feelings," Dom says. "I'm asking for some time. Maybe a lot of time. For Mal and I to lie low together."

Arthur, voice shaking, says, “Are you breaking up with me?”

"Taking a break," Dom says. His face is shuttered. "Not breaking up." But it sounds like he's saying yes.

Arthur doesn’t answer. He strides out of the room, heading straight for the bedroom on the other end of the house, where he’s sure Mal will be.

She is, her hair still damp, her eyes luminous. She looks up at him from her perch on the edge of the bed, almost exactly where Dom was leaning in Arthur's room.

"Oh, my darling," she says.

Arthur’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Dom says you want a _break_ ,” he says, words catching. Dom comes in behind him and pulls to a stop with a heavy sigh.

"It's not such a big problem," Mal says, sliding to her feet and touching his shoulder gently. "I don't want you to feel we hate you. We love you. That's why we need time apart."

“What is that supposed to _mean,_ Mal?” Arthur says. It’s hard to maintain momentum with her. With being angry at her. She looks at him like that and he’d at least _want_ do anything she asked. No matter how things are going. “Did I do something wrong, or--?” He can’t think of a second option, except for simply not being wanted.

Dom starts to speak and Mal cuts him off. "I don't have the energy for what everyone needs," she says. "Not for you and Dom and the children." It's obvious who's at the bottom of that list.

Arthur says, daring to raise his voice a little, “So I’m a damned burden now? That’s bullshit, Mal. I help. With you and the kids and the house, and our work. I do everything. I do--” _\--more than you do,_ he almost says. _I never ask for anything,_ he almost says.

"I need time with Dom," Mal says with finality. "And just Dom."

“Yeah, and what do I need?” Arthur says. He feels hot and breathless and terrible.

"Don't you know?" Mal says. "If you don't, I feel sad for you."

Arthur says, “You know that’s not what I meant. You just--you can’t send people away like this, any time it suits you. We’re in a relationship. I’m supposed to be part of this.” There’s supposed to be _room_ for him.

"Maybe not all the time," Dom says.

Just like that, Arthur loses. 

“What do you want?” he asks. The feeling is both familiar and worse than usual.

"We'll call you," Mal says.

Dom glances at her. "In a couple weeks," he says. "Well call in you in a couple weeks."

That’s worse. Arthur feels, with utter conviction, that if he doesn’t regain just a little control of this situation, that he’s going to lose more than a couple weeks.

“Okay, fine,” Arthur says. “Take a trip. I can stay here and watch the kids.”

"I want to be home," Mal says.

Dom puts his hand on her shoulder. "We need a reset." And it’s true, they have been fighting--usually just out of Arthur and the kids’ sight, but not always. So maybe it's not about Arthur at all. Which is worse, actually, because that could mean Arthur simply doesn’t matter.

He tries to catch his breath. “So stay here. I don’t care. I’ll take the kids somewhere,” he says. “And you can watch the cat.”

"We'll send the children to my mother," Mal says. "The cat, I don't know."

"We can't keep her here if we're doing a lot of dreaming," Dom says.

Arthur wasn’t quite panicking before, but now he is. He was right, and this is worse. They won’t let him stay, they won’t let him watch the kids. Why won’t they let him watch the kids? Why won’t they look after Tira?

“So you’re shutting me out of everything,” he says, voice rising. “Why don’t I just pack everything, while I’m at it? Say so long, hug the kids goodbye, move to another country!”

Mal looks contemplative. Dom says, "Jesus, Arthur, no. But it's not our cat."

“She should be!” Arthur says. “She lives here, she’s lived with you as long as she’s lived with me.” This afternoon, when Mal fucked him, when she hit him, she already knew she was going to do this. Arthur is so stupid. Arthur is stupid, and small, and furious. 

"Just board her somewhere," Dom says.

“You’re our fucking family,” Arthur shouts, remembering too late that the kids are asleep, remembering much too late that yelling at Dom Cobb only ever burns one person.

Dom shakes his finger at Arthur. "This doesn't have to be a big deal. But if you make it one, don't wait by the phone."

Arthur wants to scream. He suddenly just needs to be out of here, out of this room, out of this feeling. Except where do you go? Friends? Hotel? His parents? Home is supposed to be _here_.

“If you’re going to force this,” he says, forcing his voice level, “I need a couple days to make plans. And I’m coming back in two weeks.” He was wrong, before. He does sound pathetic. 

"You have friends everywhere," Dom says.

"Why not stay with your Eames?" Mal asks sweetly, her eyes sharp.

It’s being hit again. Arthur bites back a whole mudslide of guilt and accusation and says, angry and sounding it, “What, you, that’s what you want me to do? You _want_ me to fucking run to Eames, now?”

"See? He doesn't know what he needs," Mal tells Dom.

"I don't know if he needs _that_ ," Dom says. "But sure, Arthur, go to Eames. He'll put you up for a few weeks."

“I said two,” Arthur tells him. “Two weeks.”

"We'll call you," Mal says again. "I think Eames likes cats."

Arthur looks for help somewhere between them, but they’re a united front. They always are. He says, “I need time to make arrangements.”

"It doesn't take long to get a ticket," Dom says.

“You can find something tonight, Arthur, can’t you?” Mal says.

_You hit me,_ he wants to say to Mal.

“Fine,” he says. “If I can’t get a flight I’ll get a hotel.” He realizes, with a sour kind of shame, that he’s going to do it. He’s going to go find Eames, and it will have been their idea. 

He sees Dom relax. "Good, great. Thanks, Arthur. We'll call you. Two weeks. A few weeks."

Arthur is so angry. He keeps his face very still and doesn’t ask for a kiss or a touch or an apology. He leaves their bedroom without saying anything. He stops by James and Phillippa’s rooms to kiss them on their foreheads, then softly calls, “Tira. Tira,” until she trots up to him, tags jingling. He has to figure out how to get her into France without a proper quarantine. Eames is in France. Arthur has stood outside the building where he’s living, although he hasn’t been inside. Arthur can find it again. Arthur is going to do exactly what he was told, and it makes him feel so sick.


	26. 1.13 EAMES IS SUCH A NICER MOTHERFUCKER

Eames is not having the time of his life. Usually when a job goes this well, he's out blowing all his money the next day. And if he has someone to wake up next to (someone to _help_ him blow his money), that's even better. Except instead, he was abandoned and robbed, which he considers to be careless on his part and rude on his partner's.

When there's a knock on the door, he almost thinks there's been a change of heart.

But no. It's something even better.

“Hi,” says Arthur. “I should’ve called.”

Eames looks at Arthur and--Arthur's _cat?_ Interesting.

"No," he says, "that's all right. Come in." If Arthur looked any less miserable, Eames would have started asking questions already.

Arthur has the cat’s cage under one arm. He’s dragging a small suitcase behind him. As soon as he’s inside, he says, “I know what this looks like, I’m sorry, I’ll get out of your way, I’ll find somewhere to stay, I just thought I’d stop by first.” It’s not like Arthur, babbling. He hugs the cage and looks at Eames with shadows under his eyes. No--more than shadows.

"Hush," Eames says, disturbed. "Just--let me get her some water, hm? And you. You look half dead."

“All right,” Arthur says. He lets go of the suitcase and puts his other arm around the cat’s carrier. He doesn’t set it down.

Eames bites his tongue and goes to get Arthur and the cat some water. Did the Cobbs throw him out again? Nothing would shock Eames, at this point. He hands Arthur the glass and says, "You can let her roam about if you like."

“I thought you might mind,” Arthur says. 

"Nah, bloody love cats," Eames says, forcing the cheerfulness into his voice. "Look, you can stay the night, anyhow. I've got room." He doesn't, and it's very obvious from the fact the tiny stove is in the same room as the bed, but he hopes his meaning is clear.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry.”

The cat, in the carrier, is small and toffee-colored and has huge eyes that are so black with fear Eames can’t tell their normal color.

He ignores Arthur. "What her name, this pretty little one?"

“Tira,” Arthur says. “Tiramisu.”

Arthur is usually so put together, but just now Eames can sense the raw edges of him, and it’s terribly unnerving. It’s like half of what’s standing here is his usual cardboard robot self, and the other half is a nervous dog that’s been tied up outside a shop.

"Well, let her out so she can have a drink," Eames says, a little more firmly. "Arthur, love, you look like _shit_." Arthur is damn well not leaving here today.

“Thanks,” Arthur says.

He bends down stiffly and sets the carrier on the ground. He unlatches the door and lets it swing open. Tiramisu doesn’t come out right away.

“She hates flying,” Arthur says. “And we had to go through some maneuvers to--to get her here. Skip quarantine. So she could skip quarantine.”

"Arthur," Eames says. He grabs Arthur's hands, which he's been wanting to do since Arthur walked in the door. "It's all right, darling. It is. You're just the person I wanted to see. Have some water." Maybe something's happened to Mal and Dom, he thinks.

Arthur picks up his glass and takes a drink. He doesn’t stop until the water is gone. He says, “I don’t know if that’s what I wanted to drink.”

"I've got gin," Eames says. "At least, I hope I have gin." That could have been taken, too. It's not as if it belonged to Eames.

At any rate, the suggestion gets a rise out of Arthur. “Do you?” he says. “I didn’t think you would.”

"For guests," Eames says drily. He checks the cupboard. Still there. "Here, sit down and tell me all about it." He puts his hand firmly on Arthur's waist and guides him to a chair. Arthur sits. His eyes are on the cat cage, where Tira’s cocoa-colored ear tips are tremblingly emerging from the opening.

Arthur blinks, and looks up at Eames. “Sorry,” he says. “What?”

"Arthur," Eames says gently, "are you all right?" He pours Arthur's gin into the former water glass and waits. He's never seen Arthur like this before.

“Oh,” Arthur says. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing you don’t already know about. If I tell you you’ll just get--fussy. The way you do.”

Eyes back on the cat. Cat out in the air up to her shoulders.

Eames wonders if Arthur is storing his soul in the cat. "Yeah," he says. "I assume I already knew. But Christ, with your cat and one bag? That's not pretty."

Arthur usually evades, at this point, or tells Eames he’s being sensitive, or grumbles rudely and brings up a job they could be doing. He doesn’t, this time. He sits there silent, his hands around the glass of gin. He blinks and blinks, until Eames can see him blinking away tears. 

"Fuck it," Eames says quietly. He's seething, but that won't help Arthur. "Whatever happens, you're welcome here." He means every word. Maybe this time Arthur will finally realize how much they're hurting him, maybe this time he'll ask to stay, maybe this time--Eames knows it won't happen, but maybe.

Arthur drops his head against the back of his wrist. “Sorry,” he says thickly. “Just tired. I’m just tired.”

"Long flight," Eames agrees. "Well, I've got a bed, and it's comfortable enough. You ought to get some rest." He edges his chair closer and puts his arm around Arthur. "It's all right, I swear. You came and found me and now it's all right." He doesn't know if he'll ever find a way to make Arthur feel that way, but it's how _he_ feels.

“I should stop doing this to you,” Arthur says. “Anyway, you only have--” He looks around the studio. “--about ten square feet to live in, don’t let me put you out.”

It’s funny, awfully, that when they met Eames thought Arthur would have done anything to put him out. He even used to hate Arthur a little. But now, even the fact that he agrees that Arthur should stop doing this doesn't really matter.

"Look," Eames says, "I wasn't staying here alone, and now I am, so maybe I'd like the company." He'd been planning to pack up and leave, not having rent money, but now he's got to keep a grip on Arthur somehow.

Tira noses the water bowl, disdains it, and creeps, tail low, toward Arthur. He reaches for her and she sinks slightly below his fingertips. He grabs her tail and squeezes gently before letting go.

“She thinks we should stay,” he says. Then his face goes wrong. “She needs a cat box, and food, I should go out--I don’t have a key--”

"Hang on," Eames says. "I can get all that while you're sleeping. Honestly, Arthur, I want you to stay. Both of you. D'you know how long I've been wishing you'd show up at my door and let me do something for you for once? So let me." He grimaces. "I do need some cash for the food, though."

Arthur turns his eyes on Eames. Always too quick on the uptake, even at his worst. 

But for once in his life he must be aware of the position he’s in, because he doesn’t push it. He digs out the cash and puts it in Eames’s hand. 

“I’ll just stay,” he says. “With the cat.”

When Eames gets back, Arthur is dead asleep, still in his dirty plane clothes, flat on his stomach on Eames’s bed with Tira in a hunched up sitting ball, purring hard on his shoulder. Being careful not to disturb her, Eames carefully sets out her things, gets the corner of a blanket over Arthur, and leans back against the headboard to watch him sleep.

~

Arthur wakes up again close to midnight, long enough to change into sweats and a t-shirt (so at least he intended to sleep) and brush his teeth (like an actual human!) before passing out again. Before he goes to bed himself, Eames decides to conduct an examination of the contents of his suitcase. He finds: three shirts, one sweater, two pairs of slacks (such that that’s the only thing you can call them), four pairs of socks, four pairs of underwear, two more white t-shirts, a passport under a name that’s garbage (isn’t it?), American and French currency, several indecipherable notes on small pieces of paper, cat treats, half a bottle of water, an empty airplane pretzel packet, and a mystery novel, spine cracked one third of the way in, with a receipt from an airport newsstand dated last month. It must have been in the bag when Arthur went to fill it.

It feels odd that there’s only one passport and no gun, but then, you can’t really bring those in your carry-on, and there’s also no tag on the bag.

Eames replaces all of it carefully, but not so carefully that Arthur couldn't guess, if he felt like it, that Eames had been through his things. Eames has never seen Arthur so off, though. He probably won't even notice.

In the morning, he makes some toast, because he doesn't have anything in his half-size refrigerator, and fixes Arthur a cup of coffee. Then he puts the cat on Arthur and waits for her to do her job.

She climbs off him immediately but then seems to get the idea, and turns back around to purr and stomp on Arthur’s head with her claws.

“Ow,” says Arthur. He sounds outraged, like a little boy who has been punched by a younger sibling and is waiting for justice he knows won’t come. “Ow, ow, Tira, Tira, no!” He rolls away in self defense and sits up.

Eames, delighted, grins at him. "Morning, buttercup. Drink your coffee."

Arthur slowly climbs to his feet, wincing and sparing a look of disgust for his rumpled, slightly fusty self. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, that would.” He reaches for the cup without finishing the thought. “Cream and sugar?” he asks, but it is already on its way to his lips.

"Sorry," Eames says. "I don't take them in my tea, so I haven't got them." He's got the coffee, though. He swears at himself in his head, trying not to think about that.

“That’s fine don’t care,” Arthur says, and sets about downing half the cup in one go. Then he grimaces, shakes his head slightly and says, “Thanks. Morning.” The bruise high on his cheek looks worse in daylight.

Eames is itching to ask at least a dozen things, but he doesn't want Arthur to spook and disappear on him. "Morning. Just so I know, should I be expecting a cadre of armed men to break down my door looking for you?"

“What? No,” Arthur says. He frowns at Eames, just a bit, like he thinks Eames has strayed from reason.

It’s possible he hasn’t seen his own face.

"Then should I assume that's the result of a domestic?" Eames asks, pointing.

Arthur freezes. Well, if he hasn’t seen his own face, he at least knows what Eames is talking about.

"You look a mess," he says gently. "Have a piece of toast." Eames wonders if he could take Dominic in a fight.

Arthur puts his cup down on the tiny counter and takes a piece of toast. There’s nothing on it and Arthur doesn’t ask for anything, just stands there with it in his hand and says, “It wasn’t like that. She was just...”

Eames takes a sharp breath. Stupid. Of course it wasn't Dominic. "So she beat you up and then tossed you out? What a charming young lady." He finds that he's shaking with anger.

“No,” Arthur says, as if Eames is being slow on the uptake and dangerous both. “We were just--it was an accident. And they needed space. I get that. I need space.”

If Eames had his way, Arthur would find a way to have enough space that he never saw the Cobbs ever again. "I'm dropping it," he says lightly. Shouting at Arthur about it won't help. It didn't before. "Your cat seems at home already."

“Tira?” Arthur twists around and watches her, where she sits in the window twitching her tail. “Parisian rain must be more interesting than American rain.”

Eames smiles past the feeling of his heart being yanked on. "Well, don't let her out in it."

Arthur slides his gaze back around to Eames. “So: you’re broke?”

"Ah," Eames says. He was hoping Arthur would have somehow slept away that knowledge. "I am slightly broke. Well, entirely broke. I have about thirty euros in my wallet, and that's it."

“ _Eames,”_ Arthur says.

"Gambled it all away," Eames offers. "Or drank it. Yeah. That sounds like me."

“It _does_ sound like you,” Arthur says firmly. “Or who you put on. What happened?” _What actually happened, and I entirely see through you,_ is what he thinks Arthur means.

"I was robbed," Eames says. He tries to make it sound casual, like his heart wasn't also somewhat trampled on. 

Arthur says, making the sort of precise clarification he makes in their work, “You had all your money in this room.”

"All my money was the money from the job I just did," Eames says. "So, yes." And to be fair, he _did_ gamble away all his previous money. He'd been really counting on this job to come through.

“Jesus Christ, Eames,” Arthur says. “So, what, someone just walked into the apartment and took everything you had?”

"No," Eames says. Fine, he was going to have to explain eventually. Arthur is relentless. An interrogation machine. "The person I did the job with stole it. Because I was asleep. All right?"

Arthur processes, and says, “Have you considered not sleeping with criminals?”

"I'm sorry," Eames says, "are you asking to sleep on the street?"

“It sounds like that’s where you’re headed,” Arthur counters. “ _I_ have money.”

Eames almost says _Good luck finding a hotel, then_ , but he doesn't actually want Arthur to leave, and he doesn't trust him not to. "Yes, I expect we'll part ways at that point," he says.

“ _No,”_ Arthur says, and sighs. “No, that’s not--I do have money. Let me get you back.”

"I'd feel funny about it," Eames says, but honestly, only a tiny part of him feels that way. The rest of him just wants to keep Arthur this close for as long as he can, whatever it takes.

“You’ll feel really funny living under a bridge,” Arthur says. “I’m paying your rent. I’m staying with you, I’m paying your rent.”

"All right," Eames concedes. He's done his duty and protested a little. "At least until I can build up some funds." It really was a lot. He should have hidden it better, or asked for a check.

“We’ll put some jobs together,” Arthur says.

Eames relaxes. "You and me? Yes, please. I miss working with you." It hasn't been too long since they've done it, but he's had enough bad jobs with unprofessional assholes in between that he's ready for Arthur again.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “What else are we gonna do? Run through my savings and sit two feet apart from each other until something better comes along?”

That sounds all right, too, but Eames knows Arthur likes to keep busy. "Sex can take up some time," he finds himself pointing out.

“Less than two feet,” Arthur amends.

"But of course working for a living is more important." Eames feels lighter already. Arthur is almost his old self, at least in this moment. Maybe he'll feel like staying that way.

Arthur looks at the dry toast in his hand.

“We’re in Paris,” he says. “This is not real food.”

_Thank God._ "You're paying," Eames says, beaming at him. An Arthur who eats dry toast is no Arthur at all. "And if I try to hold your hand, you can't shout at me."

He looks for any changes of expression that this might provoke, but if Arthur is still a mess internally, he doesn’t show it on his face. No, he’s right back to impassive.

“Where’d I leave my coat?” Arthur says. “And do you have an extra umbrella?”

"Here, and no," Eames says. "But we can share mine." No innuendo this time. "Out of curiosity, how long are you staying in Paris?"

“A bit,” Arthur says. “Long enough to get you on your feet, I guess.”

"Christ," Eames says. This is probably not the time to lecture Arthur on his lack of self-preservation. Not before breakfast. He settles for, "I'm always on my feet."

A beat.

“All right,” Arthur says. He stirs himself. “Are we going out, or what?”

Eames sighs. "I know a nice little cafe. It made me think of you, actually. Come on."


	27. 3.6 PARIS, LOVE

They've done two highly successful and reasonably lucrative jobs in a row, so today Eames takes them to the Jardin des Champs-Élysées. There won't be any serious people with briefcases offering them jobs at the park. He hasn't spent a lot of his time in Paris so far relaxing, but Arthur is a nice excuse. Besides, he's afraid Arthur won't ever stop doing jobs if he doesn't make him.

He takes Arthur for a walk down an avenue bordered with flowers on the pretense that it's a shortcut to lunch. Arthur ambles beside him, hands in his pockets. The bruise on his face is only visible when Eames looks for it. He wears his usual cool as if nothing exists to bother him, but Eames is canny to that by now, and can tell when something sneaks up from behind and worries him like a dog with a rat. (Arthur’s the rat.) Just now, there’s no fraying edge to see. Which is nice.

“This is lovely,” Arthur says. “Shame half of Paris is here, but it’s nice to be in that half.”

Eames wants to tell him that he should move here and live with him in domestic bliss, but that's an insane thing to say to someone who's just trying to enjoy the sunshine.

"We should do this more often," he says, which is still too much. "Just relax."

“You know we’re only working so hard to fix _your_ finances,” Arthur points out with deep unfairness. Arthur is an obsessive. Arthur is a workaholic. Arthur would take worse jobs for no pay, probably.

"Let me be broke for a day, mm?" Eames says. He spies a bench and grabs Arthur's arm. "Here, come, sit. We'll work tomorrow. Or the next day."

Arthur lets Eames pull him down. He leans, with his arm hitched across the back of the bench, and takes a deep breath. Eames can see the hairs on his arm standing up. It’s warm for April, but not so warm that it’s hot in the shade.

"You truly are a gem," Eames says. "Which I mean in both a shallow way and a way where I'm enjoying getting to know the real you." Arthur has only ever let out anything real in tiny flashes, but now that he's staying with Eames, he slips more often.

Arthur offers a smile. “The real me enjoys sitting on a bench,” he says. 

Eames puts his hand on Arthur's arm. It feels casual and natural. "And what else?"

“Hmm?” Arthur says.

"What else do you like?" Eames asks. "Not just in the sense of an innuendo, but more in the sense of having worked together for years and still not knowing enough about each other." He knows the shape of Arthur's personality perfectly well by now, but he still has very few concrete details on him. Not the way you would in a real relationship.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Eames, you know what I like,” Arthur says. It’s insulting and a little heartwarming at the same time. Does Arthur think he’s been forthcoming, or what? 

"Do I?" Eames demands. "I don't even know your last name."

“Yeah, but--oh, don’t you?” Arthur says. “Well, never mind that. It’s not what I like, you said you wanted to know what I like.”

Eames's own skills at evasion are nothing next to Arthur's. "Well," he says, "all right, food. You've paid for my dinner enough times. What do you actually like to eat?"

“Oh, everything,” Arthur says with a laugh. Eames only thinks it’s dismissive for about half a second before Arthur says, “I’m not humoring you when we go out. Tell you what, if we can squeeze a few ingredients into your apartment, I’ll cook something for you. Something I really like. We can go through my likes methodically, how about that?” 

"Oh," Eames says. "I mean, yes." Arthur is a closed book, but when he opens up, he's so open it takes Eames's breath away. He'd say he hopes other people know how to appreciate that about him, but he already knows how things stand there.

“Is that all you wanted to know?” Arthur says. “What I eat? You’ve seen me eat.” 

"Let's just say I started off with a safe question," Eames says. "Mostly I just don't want to live--stay together as strangers. Fair's fair. I can share too."

“Are you sure?” says Arthur rudely. “All right. I’m trying to think of a--no, they’re all terrible. Do you--? I feel stupid doing this, Eames, I feel like I’m at a middle school summer camp and in about twenty minutes someone’s going to make me do trust falls.”

Eames doesn't point out that they're a bit past trust falls, with some of the jobs they've done. "We're about on the level of middle-schoolers, emotionally," he says. "Come on, if I'd been able to get any of this out of you in normal conversation, I would have."

“We have normal conversations,” Arthur protests. “Okay, where’d you learn how to do the dream stuff, then?”

"Ah," Eames says "Long answer. The short version is I knew some people who were participating in some of the more...off-label uses for dream-sharing. I was a teenager, they were making money, so I got sucked in."

Arthur narrows his eyes at that, but doesn’t move his arms off the back of the bench. Eames wonders if he’ll be asked for the long version later--if not in this conversation, then in another one.

Arthur shifts slightly and says, cool as anything, “You’re still working on the money part, huh?”

"You know it's not _making_ money that's the problem," Eames says breezily. "But it's my turn, anyway. Tell me about your first time." He grins at Arthur. "Dream-sharing, that is."

Arthur meets his gaze, then blinks. “You don’t want to know,” he says. 

Eames frowns. "You can pass, if you want." But he can absolutely guarantee that he wants the answers to anything he could ask Arthur.

“Just don’t get touchy,” Arthur says. “The first time was with Dom, and there was a real mark. No slouch, either. The whole thing was like an eighties adventure movie with the subject as the star. Showed us where the gold was, more or less.” Arthur frowns. “The only problem with him being the hero was he kept almost killing us.”

Eames winces. That's beautiful, and what an awful way to start someone out. It says a lot about Arthur that he kept doing it after that. It says something about Cobb, too. "Hell of a way to start," Eames says mildly.

“Honestly it wasn’t that different from my last job,” Arthur says.

"I can't say anything judgmental?" Eames asks. He wonders, wistfully, if he could ever get away with just decking Cobb in the face.

“If you have to,” Arthur says impassively.

"The way your team approaches dream-sharing is reckless and unnecessary," Eames says, but without any venom. He doesn't want to scare Arthur off, and besides, it's a beautiful day.

“Yet you come along for the ride so often,” Arthur says with a crooked smile.

"I can't think why," Eames says, making eyes at Arthur. It's not just about that, of course. The Cobbs are innovative and fascinating to work with. Not that he feels that way today.

Arthur is giving him the oddest little look.

"What?" Eames asks, discomfited. 

Arthur shakes his head. “Do you play this game with all the boys?”

Eames laughs. "Since you asked, no, I don't share this much with anyone." Most people he's met don't even know his real name. It's more of an accident than anything else that Arthur does.

“You haven’t shared anything yet,” Arthur says mildly. “And that’s not my question. What do you mean by off-brand?”

It's a good question. That's the pitfall of what Eames has started here. "Well," he says, "you know the party line they feed you about dream-sharing being developed as a combat simulator? It was also being used for robbery and prostitution, almost right from the start. So those are the standard uses, and it goes from there. But now it's all gotten more complex and experimental, and your friends are part of that. Building in multiple layers, manipulating the dream-scape to such an extreme degree--it's risky. It's uncharted territory. It's also fascinating stuff."

“To a sixteen-year-old, though?” Arthur says, and then waves a hand, grimacing. “Not my turn,” he says. “I know. But you’re being evasive.”

"Sorry," Eames says. "Habit. All right. Me. What kind of relationships did you have before the Cobbs?"

Arthur says, “Are you setting me up?”

"Christ," Eames says. "I'm just curious. I mean, are you usually--" He doesn't say _a third wheel_ \--"involved with more than one person at once?"

Arthur gives an acquiescent nod. “No,” he says. “That’s a first. I’ve had a few girlfriends. I’ve seen a few guys.” He shrugs. “Slept with some friends. Mostly they’ve been all right. Mostly they’ve ended all right.”

Arthur is so _good_ , and it makes Eames's chest hurt. He's mostly just a normal person who's gotten involved in some complicated things. He realizes he's staring. "Well, you're personable," he says.

Arthur laughs. “Oh really?” he says. “Well. I wish that were enough.”

"It is," Eames says. "I mean, it should be." He looks away, paying very close attention to a dog chasing a ball. He's being embarrassing, he knows. But everything Arthur says or does with regard to the Cobbs is so painful.

“No,” Arthur says. “Sorry. I was thinking about--it was something else. A long time ago. Anyway, your question is over. You forge a lot of women when the job doesn’t call for it. Care to tell me about that?” It’s not mean, but it is surprising. How long has Arthur been hiding that question under his hat?

"Ah," Eames says. He seems to have invented a game that requires him to be under scrutiny, but that's what he gets for prying into Arthur's business. "Well, I like being other people. In dreams and out. It's just taking that to an extreme. Besides, it's fun. You'd do it if you could."

“No, I wouldn’t,” Arthur says. “I don’t like being other people. All right, ask something.”

Eames, feeling unhappy about his last answer, decides to send Arthur an easy one. "What languages are you actually fluent in?"

“I think you’re overestimating me,” Arthur says, looking embarrassed. “Let’s just assume I’m an ignorant American who didn’t take any college language courses.”

"Oh," Eames says, "you're joking! I always take you for someone pretentious, with those outfits. I should have asked about them."

“Wait your damn turn,” Arthur says. “Anyway. I can get by in a few places. And my French is all right. But it’s better to say I don’t know anything. Where are you from?”

"London," Eames says, and this should be an easy answer, but it's one he guards more closely than most. But he can't play this game if he's going to cheat.

Eames sees the moment Arthur decides not to push. It’s a moment of stillness, followed by a slow nod, and Eames knows he’s been granted a kind of grace. Arthur looks off across the lawn and Eames sees a young woman walking by with her nose in a notebook. It doesn’t look easy to draw and walk, but she’s doing it.

"Do you ever…" Eames starts, but he doesn't know where he's going with it. Arthur just makes him _ache_ , and he can't tell if it's with sadness or with wanting him. He clears his throat. "Do you think you'll do this forever? This lifestyle?"

“No,” Arthur says. “Not unless I die young. I’ve done other things before this and I’ll do other things again.” He turns to Eames. “You?”

"Not really," Eames says. "This is the best version of everything I like doing. But it's crossed my mind once or twice. Always for the wrong people, though."

“You can’t always get them right,” Arthur says, who knows more about Eames’s love life, after all this time, than Eames would strictly prefer. “Although maybe if you thought of your dates like marks you’d be better at judging their characters?”

Eames winces. "Ah. You've identified my area of weakness when it comes to reading people. All right. Here's a positive one. What do you think your best quality is?"

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “What am I interviewing for?” he asks.

"A position as my date, obviously," Eames says. He just wants to hear Arthur say something good about himself, but he can't tell him that.

“Ahh, your date,” Arthur says. “I’ll have to try, then. I’m tenacious?”

"Christ," Eames says. Arthur makes him feel warm all over. He squeezes his arm hard. "You are, at that. You certainly are."

“Like a hound,” Arthur agrees. He furrows his brow. “My turn. How long did it take you to stop flirting to piss me off and start flirting because you--you know, meant it?”

Eames's hand is still on Arthur's arm. He doesn't move it. "Ah. Fair question. I flirt with everyone. I thought you were cute to start with, but I couldn't stand you. That didn't change for a while, but I started being fascinated by you...oh, second job together? Probably." It's hard to pick out all the threads of attraction, feelings, and dislike. "Anyway, I would have slept with you on the first job, if you'd gone for it."

Arthur looks at him bemusedly. “That’s a hell of an answer,” he says. “Somehow I thought I’d come out a little better.”

"If it helps at all, I'm in love with you now," Eames says.

Arthur gets very still, like he’s afraid breathing will break something. “Is that so,” he says. Not a question.

"I thought you might know," Eames says carefully. He can't believe he said it. "And if not, I thought you should. Trade-off for all those half answers before. Look, I'm not expecting anything."

Arthur smiles at him, one of those small expressions that Eames knows hold more than any other kind. “I’m not worried,” Arthur says. He pulls his arm away and stands up.

“You went first,” he says. “I think we’re done for now, right?” 

It’s not frightening, the way he says it. He’s still smiling, is the thing. He offers Eames a hand up.

Eames grabs his hand and pulls himself up. There, he said it, and it wasn't terrifying. It didn't ruin everything. They're going to find a restaurant and buy lunch, and then they're going to walk home together, and it's going to be all right.

“I’m starving,” Arthur says. “Interrogator.” His grip on Eames’s hand shifts, then settles, warm and firm.


	28. 3.7 DON’T THEY DO ANOTHER QUESTION GAME LIKE A COUPLE WEEKS LATER THO

Arthur can’t answer Eames, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it. He absorbs the _I love you_ and holds Eames’s hand and reminds himself that nobody’s in the dark, here. Mal and Dom know where he is. Everyone knows who’s sleeping with whom. Knowing Mal, she, at least, knows how Eames feels. She certainly knows how Arthur does. 

But in a couple of days Dom will call and Arthur will go home, and he refuses to promise anything that he knows is not going to happen. He loves Eames too much for that. He’s loved Eames too much for that for a very long time.

Dom doesn’t call on the day Arthur asked him to. Arthur goes to an Internet cafe and disappoints himself, if disappoint is the right word. He isn’t sure it is. Dom doesn’t call the day after that, either. It starts to tear at Arthur, Dom’s refusal to promise that they’d bring him back. On the day after _that_ , Arthur does something he knows is low. He waits until he and Eames are in bed, pink and sweaty and still naked, and says, “Question game.”

"Hm?" Eames says, muffled by the pillow. "Oh, er--why not? But I get to go first." He rolls over to face Arthur. "What was university like?"

Arthur winces. He’s not ashamed, exactly, but he’s a little sensitive when it comes at him like that.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says. “I’m a self-directed learner.”

"Stupid," Eames says. "Me, I mean. Not a charming assumption. Sorry about that."

“No offense taken. Did _you_ go to college?” Arthur says.

"Parts of it," Eames says. "I have a degree. One of my finest forgeries."

Arthur laughs. “I think you should tell me what you fake majored in free of charge.”

Eames smiles at him. "Art history," he says. "I did take most of the classes. I wasn't good at papers and whatnot, though."

“Oh, papers and whatnot,” Arthur says. “And here I thought that’s what college was.” He shuts his eyes and sinks himself deeper into the pillows.

Eames begins tracing a design on Arthur's hip. "Worst breakup," he says after a moment.

Something slowly comes into focus. Oh, Arthur knows what he’s doing, now. He’s making a second pass, but he’s getting things wrong.

“The breakup wasn’t the problem,” Arthur says. 

"You can make me wait another round or you can tell me now, but I'm going to ask," Eames says firmly.

“She’s dead,” Arthur says. There’s so much of this story that he won’t tell Eames, no matter how he asks. “We were kids,” he adds.

Eames's hand on Arthur's hip stops moving. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

“I’m not going to talk about it,” Arthur says. Although if he did, it would do wonders for Eames’s roundabout snooping. It’s why there wasn’t any college and how he ended up a cop. It’s the missing piece. Eames will have to live without it. “What’s your full name? Legally.”

"Oh, fuck off," Eames says, but like he knew it was coming. "It actually is Eames. Matthew Edward. Christ. Haven't said that in a while.'

“Never fear. No need to say it again,” Arthur says.

"Mm. All right, you like men. And women. Did you tell your family?"

“They asked, I told,” Arthur says. It still makes him feel a little numb behind the teeth. “No details since. We’re all very respectful of each other’s privacy in my family.” He knows his voice gives away more than he wants it to.

"Is your family--No, sorry, not my turn." Eames has fitted himself against Arthur's body. Maybe he thinks he's being subtle, but Arthur can feel him radiating concern.

“Ask happier questions, then,” Arthur chides. He maneuvers his arm up to get his fingers in Eames’s hair. “Do _you_ like women?”

"Ah," Eames says. "I'm...not sure?" He's silent long enough that Arthur thinks that might be the whole answer. Then he says, "Yes, but I don't sleep with them very often."

“Just shy of a true homosexual,” Arthur says.

"My dear, I am _shy_ of nothing," Eames says. "My turn. Weirdest kink."

Arthur isn’t sure he has anything that anyone would call a kink. Really he just likes sleeping with people, people he likes, in a way that makes them happy.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s not really my scene. Why, what do you want done?”

"Oh, I have no trouble telling you what I want done," Eames says. "I just want to know what _you_ want. It's not all about me, you know."

“I just like to have a good time,” Arthur protests. “I’m not picky. Anyway, kinks and turn-ons aren’t the same thing. Are they? They’re not.”

"All right," Eames says. "You're allowed to be vanilla." He leans over and kisses Arthur.

In a second, Arthur becomes aware that the game was working, because he _wasn’t_ thinking of Dom and Mal, and now he is. He can feel Dom’s tongue in his mouth, and feels so awful about it that he pulls back.

“Cats or dogs?” he says quickly.

"Cats," Eames says promptly. "Tira."

Tira, who is currently locked in the bathroom.

“Just Tira,” Arthur says, to confirm. “No other animal on Earth.”

"I'd never get a cat of my own," Eames says. "I move around too much. I don't know how you manage. All right, that's my question. Where did you pick her up?"

Somehow the phrasing of Eames’s question makes Arthur feel a little stupid about the answer. It seems like he should have rescued her from an unpleasant mark or found her in a dumpster or hidden with her somewhere on the run from someone angry and gun-wielding.

“I went to a shelter,” he says. “Because I wanted a cat.”

He’s probably the most boring person in the world.

He can feel Eames watching him. "God," he says quietly. "I am fond of you."

Arthur hopes he doesn’t look flustered, but his hopes aren’t high. 

“Sorry I’m not more interesting,” he says.

"You are, though," Eames says. "You're fascinating, and you always surprise me."

Eames is so open with flattery that when it tips over into something sincere, it’s a little hard to weather. 

“You’re sweet,” Arthur says. It feels daring to say out loud. And it doesn’t feel like the right word at all. 

"Maybe," Eames says gently. "Anyhow, ask me something." He nuzzles Arthur, prompting him.

“Where’s home?” Arthur asks. As soon as it comes out of his mouth he regrets it. It’s not like Eames hasn’t asked anything unfair, but that’s less fair than Arthur wants to be.

Eames is silent for a long time. Finally, he says, "It's not a concept I've really cultivated. I don't think I have an answer for you."

Arthur leans into him a little.

“That’s fair,” he says. “That’s fine.” He isn’t sure about his answer himself. Maybe he could say his parents, but that’s questionable, at best, and he hasn’t even seen them in such a long time.

"I give you pass on this one if you like," Eames says, "but why Dom and Mal? What's the attraction? Assume that's a question free of value-judgment."

Arthur snorts. “As if you’re capable,” he says. “But--oh, I don’t know. What’s not for me to like? We’re attracted to each other. They taught me the job, so we’ve got that in common. We work well together, professionally and otherwise. I don’t know. What do you want?” 

Arthur can’t explain better than that. He isn’t effusive to begin with, and despite what Eames says, Arthur knows he’ll judge anything Arthur says. Arthur can’t explain what it was like in the beginning, like stepping out onto a city street into a wind so strong that you couldn’t breathe in when it hit you. It’s still like that, once in a while. And he’s cared about them for so long now. Even if it’s gotten harder lately, he’s cared for so long.

Eames nods against Arthur's shoulder. "It's not a bad answer. I just wish I could see them the way you do."

“No, you don’t,” Arthur says. “You don’t wish that.”

"No," Eames agrees. "Sorry. I shouldn't have brought them up."

Arthur thinks of them not calling and his stomach squeezes tight. So much for the game.

“Favorite ice cream flavor,” he says finally.

Eames laughs. "Chocolate," he says. "With hot fudge."

“I guess you’ll say my favorite is vanilla,” Arthur says. It’s a bad joke, which is the kind of joke he makes when he’s trying to cover for something else.

Eames says mildly, "I have absolutely no complaints about your performance, Arthur."

Eames has waited two years to tell Arthur his full name, and he still comes out with stuff like this as though it’s nothing. Arthur has loved plenty of people--more than none, at least--but nobody’s ever talked to him the way Eames does, straight on and shameless.

Eames reaches up and runs his hand through Arthur's hair. "All right. This is a silly one. But why _do_ you always dress like you're at a business dinner at a five-star hotel?"

Arthur decides he can splurge a little.

“Because I like to look nice,” Arthur says. “Why do you think?” Before Eames can get exasperated, he says, “I didn’t get nice clothes as a little kid. Then I wound up with a family who could afford things. They asked what I wanted. I wanted to feel good in my clothes. I wanted not to look poor. Maybe that’s a shitty thing to say, I don’t know, but it’s how I felt. I still feel like if I don’t keep asserting myself, you know, it’ll all go back to how it was.”

"At least one of my guesses was right, then," Eames says thoughtfully. "Thank goodness. Well, no judgment here." He doesn't comment or try to ask any questions about Arthur's family, oddly.

“You know, it’s bullshit,” Arthur says, “for me to go and give you actual answers to things, while you just sit there saying things like ‘London.’ And just expecting me to put up with it.”'

"Ah," Eames says. He sounds ashamed, at least. "No, I know. Sorry. It's a habit. But believe me, I've shared more with you than I have with anyone else on purpose. Well, maybe bar one."

Arthur tries to guess, and then decides it doesn’t matter. He knows the only person he’d go to if something went wrong with Eames, and that’s all he needs to know. He says, “All right. But next time I’m not going to let you get away with it.”

"Fine." Eames sounds pleased. "Arthur--thanks. For being a bit patient. I promise I'll be fantastic and completely worth the effort, if you keep it up."

Arthur is flat on his back, and has been the whole time, but he _feels_ it, suddenly. For the first time, he thinks (in a small, clear voice inside his head): _I could stay._

He doesn’t realize, until he’s here, and everything is soft and peaceful, that home hurts. It’s a terrible thought. He teeters on the edge of seeing Mal and Dom from Eames’s perspective. He can’t bear to. He loves them. He needs them to be all right for him to love. But if he doesn’t pay attention, he can see what Eames means. And Eames, on the other side of things, says _I love you_ and _you never disappoint me_ , and it breaks Arthur into pieces.

“I’ll see you in round three,” he says.

"Count on it," Eames says.


	29. 1.14 LET’S BREAK THIS UP / 2.1 LET’S BREAK THIS UP CONTD

Three weeks after Arthur arrives, Eames is beginning to fall into a dangerous lull. They’ve gone on a spate of jobs, all ending with immediate pay and no too-dire consequences. They’re hitting a rhythm when it comes to sharing Eames’s tiny apartment. Arthur hasn’t spoken a whisper about leaving, not so far as to a neighboring hotel. Once or twice, Eames has caught him calling the tiny apartment _home_.

Eames thinks Arthur might even be happy, a lot of the time. There was a rough patch, last week, but he’s been on the upswing the last couple of days. Today they went out on an honest to God date. They walked and talked and fed some pigeons, went into some shops, came home with fresh, delicious food, ate, and had sex without anyone being dramatic about it. Now Eames is lying in bed waiting for Arthur and Tira the cat to come out of the bathroom, and feeling something painfully close to hope.

In his head, Eames tries different versions of how he might ask Arthur if he's staying, but none of them pass muster. If he says anything, there's a decent chance it could all evaporate. Still, he has to say _something_. Just enough to let Arthur know that he's wanted, if he doesn't already. He resolves to say something when Arthur comes back.

He waits a few more minutes. Arthur doesn’t seem like he ever _will_ come back. Eames gets up and goes to the bathroom door, telling himself he's just checking. He's not worried yet, not really. He knocks quietly.

"Arthur? Coming to bed, or…?"

Arthur doesn’t immediately answer. When he does, he says, “Hang on,” and then nothing else.

Eames stands there, shirtless, trying to fight the feeling of panic in his gut. _Stupid_ , he tells himself. _He just wants some damn privacy in the bathroom._ He takes a deep breath and waits.

Arthur doesn’t come out.

"Arthur," Eames says. "Are you all right?"

The door slowly opens. Arthur shows through the crack, wearing his sweatpants and holding the cat, his phone in his hand. He doesn’t look well.

"What is it?" Eames demands, trying not to sound angry or worried or any of the things he's about to be. He's glad Arthur had Tira in there, at least. "What's the matter, love?"

“It’s nothing,” Arthur says. 

Cobbs, then.

"Contact from the mothership?" Eames asks drily. _Don't go_ , he thinks. But maybe all Arthur wants is to go.

“I,” Arthur starts, but he sags. “Yeah. Mothership.”

Eames nods, and he could just brush it off and call it a night, but he's so desperate for _progress_. "Arthur," he says. "Come back to bed with me and tell me about it."

“You don’t want to hear about that,” Arthur says. “Honestly. I know you. You just get frustrated over nothing.”

"It's not nothing," Eames says. And yes, he's already frustrated. "And I do want to hear about it. It's your life." He takes Arthur's hand and makes himself breathe evenly. Arthur's right about one thing, getting frustrated won't actually help.

“I don’t even understand,” Arthur says, an edge to his voice, “why you work with them, if you hate them so much.”

"Well," Eames says carefully. "I sometimes need the money. Hand to god. But beyond that, working with them means working with you. Even if that's why I hate them."

Arthur takes his hand back and messes up his own already ruffled hair.

“I know it’s not perfect,” he says. “With them. I know.”

"It's not," Eames says. "Arthur, it's bloody criminal."

Arthur shakes his head, and Tira starts kicking her back feet to be let down. He sets her down on the tile. 

“You always say things like that,” he says. “And I know you’re worried, but I’m an adult, Eames, do you know that? And I’m not stupid, either.”

Eames is not sure that Arthur isn't stupid, at least about certain things. He knows he's been stupid in the exact same way, and more than once, but never for this _long_. But that's something else he can't say. He settles for, "Even adults have blind spots."

Arthur pushes past him, into the main room. He sits down at Eames’s little cafe table and sets his phone screen-down in front of him. 

“I don’t need it to be _easy,”_ he says, as if that’s anything like an adequate admission of the Cobbs’ guilt. Eames isn’t even sure whether it’s true, or whether it’s something Arthur has decided is true, through force of will. 

"You apparently don't even _need_ not to be beaten and thrown out like a stray dog," Eames says coldly. "I hope you realize that isn't your actual market value."

“I know,” Arthur says quietly.

Eames tries not to sound angry or heartbroken. "Then why do you put up with it?"

“All the good reasons,” Arthur says. “It’s my job, and there’s the kids, and--they really need me.”

Horrible, Eames thinks, if it's true. "I imagine you think I'm being hard on them," he says. "I suppose I don't have all the details." Only what he's seen, and that's enough.

“No,” Arthur says. “You get the worst parts. I’m sorry about that.”

"I get you," Eames says. "Don't be sorry. But you know, the worst parts are pretty bad." He wishes he'd put a shirt on. He's cold. But Arthur is talking about his life more than has done in all the time they've known each other, and Eames doesn't dare break the spell.

Arthur’s shoulders rise and fall. “I get tired,” he says. “That’s why it’s nice, you know, come see you, dig up a job for us to go on, anything. You don’t make me tired. You’re obnoxious, but you don’t make me tired.”

This time, the hope _hurts_. For a moment, Eames can't breathe past it. "But you're going to go back," he forces himself to say. His voice sounds like someone else's.

Arthur pushes at his phone. “Not right now, seems like,” he says. “I don’t even know when they’ll--” He shakes his head, slight and quick. “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t go at all.”

_Christ_. "You're welcome to stay," Eames says with forced levity. "I might even spring for a place with a proper bedroom."

Arthur spears him with a look, but it’s not unkind. “Who’d be springing, you or me?” he says.

"I've been working," Eames returns. "I do work. And sometimes when I gamble, I win." Because now they're a couple and they get to argue about finances. All right, maybe he's being a bit optimistic, but that's how the past few weeks have felt. And if Arthur doesn't go back, maybe that's what the future will look like, too. Right now Eames will take Arthur in any form. He hasn't gotten this close to complain about the details.

Arthur pushes his phone a little further away.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere today unless you ask me to,” he says. “But maybe hold off a couple weeks on that whole bedroom thing.”

"You can stay as long as you want," Eames says. He knows it's too much. He always goes too far. 

But Arthur doesn’t get skittish. He says, “Thanks.” He meets Eames’s eyes and means it. He says, “I’m lucky I know you. I’m sorry I’m an idiot.”

Eames grabs Arthur's hand and pulls him close for a kiss. He doesn't let go of his hand the whole time.


	30. 2.2 ARTHUR THINKS ABOUT STAYING

They don’t talk about the Cobbs for a couple days after the text. Then out of nowhere, Arthur says something. He’s stirring the contents of a pot (Eames doesn’t know what it is, hasn’t checked, it smells great), while Eames lies on the bed flipping through a newspaper.

Arthur must be standing there stirring up his brain, because what Arthur says is, “D’you know what Dom told me before I came here?”

He turns his head, and finds Eames looking at him.

“He said, _If you make this into a big deal, don’t bother waiting by the phone.”_ Arthur nods once. “That’s what he said.”

Eames stares at him. "Am I allowed to react to that?" he asks flatly.

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “You are.”

"If you go back," Eames says, "go back to break his neck."

Arthur looks at him tiredly. “It’s been three years,” he says.

"It doesn't matter!" Eames says, exasperated. "It could be ten years and still be a disaster!"

“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like a disaster when I’m there.”

"Never?" Eames presses. He wishes he could be a fly on the wall of every room in the Cobb household.

Arthur turns the burner off and leans against the counter. “Maybe not never,” he says. “I don’t know.” Some part of him clearly does.

Eames takes a deep breath. "So, all right. Are you telling me that the good parts are good enough that you're going to discount all the bad parts?" He tells himself he shouldn't go down this road. He won't like what he finds.

“No,” Arthur says, almost sharply. “I’m telling you that I don’t know what to do.”

He’s hanging onto the counter behind him, food completely forgotten.

Eames forces himself not to shout. Arthur isn't the one he wants to shout at. He crosses to Arthur, not quite in his space, and says, "It's all right, you know. Either way, I'm here." Maybe he shouldn't be, but he is.

“Have feelings about something, Eames. Have an opinion,” Arthur says. He looks terrified.

"An opinion," Eames says. He'd thought it was clear. God, maybe it wasn't. "Arthur, my opinion is that they're fucking abusive and you deserve so much better. And maybe this sounds arrogant, but I think you're much better off with me." He pauses for a breath. "But I've been too worried that if I said so, you'd disappear on me."

Arthur nods, slowly. 

"I'd rather see you alone than with them," Eames says. "That's the truth. I've felt that since before I...felt this." He shrugs and pretends that it doesn't cost him a thing to say this.

“But you’d like me to stay,” Arthur checks.

"I would _love_ you to stay," Eames says. He puts his hands on Arthur's waist.

Arthur looks at him so seriously. Eames can’t read his mind, which makes him a little wild. Arthur says, “It’s been almost four weeks. It was supposed to be two.”

"Yeah," Eames says. "That's a terrible thing to do to someone." Now that he's letting himself show Arthur how angry he is, he can't stop.

Arthur nods briefly. “Maybe--” He looks questioningly at Eames. “--maybe I should stop waiting. Just...try it.”

Eames swallows past the lump in his throat. _Don't get your hopes up_ , he tells himself, but he's _gone_. "I'd like that, yeah," he says.

“All right,” says Arthur. “Then if it’s okay with you, I’ll--all right.” 

He nods, turns around, and turns the burner back on.

Weak-kneed, Eames watches him. It's exhausting, helping Arthur extricate himself from this mess, but what's more exhausting is the hope. He watches Arthur cook for a bit longer. Then he says, "Be proud of yourself."

“Pssh,” Arthur says, probably for several reasons.

"Still, though," Eames says. He'll keep hurling things like that until they stick. But god, he won this round, if you can count winning against opponents who probably don't even consider themselves to be in a fight.

“Shhh,” Arthur says. But his shoulders relax a little. And, when he finishes, dinner is good.


	31. 2.4 BACK TO THE SORROW TIMES

Arthur and Eames are on something that Arthur might call a date, even though they live together and do this kind of thing almost every day. It’s been a month since Arthur decided to practice not waiting for Mal and Dom. Arthur has to be careful of how he thinks about it, and how he doesn’t think about Mal and Dom and the kids. When he keeps his thoughts in order, he knows that it’s--nice. That sounds like a small word, but it isn’t. Working with Eames, on almost every job, that’s nice--or, as nice as their work ever is. Eames himself is nice. And Eames is nice to the cat, in particular, which makes an impression on Arthur. He’s had Tira for over a year and no one has ever been as nice to her as Eames.

If he was Eames, Arthur thinks he’d give up on this whole situation, but Eames doesn’t, and that makes Arthur feel something terrible and needy that he doesn’t know how to name. 

In return for promises and things being nice, Arthur doesn’t compulsively check his phone, he doesn’t bring the Cobbs up, and he banishes thoughts of going back as soon as they arise. He gets on with things, and he finds that the things he gets on with are usually enough to make up for what’s missing. He misses the kids more than Dom and Mal. He tries to accept that.

At this moment, he and Eames are eating lunch at a cafe. It’s just warm enough that they are comfortable sitting at a table outdoors. The table is darkly finished metal made to look like planks of wood. Arthur keeps thinking he’s going to drop something down the crack.

He’s in the middle of explaining why he’s a snob about vinegar, of all the damn things, when his phone buzzes, and he takes it out of his pocket, and it’s Dom. He tries to hide it from Eames, reflexively, but it’s too late.

Eames eyes the phone and then glances up at Arthur's face anxiously. "When's the last time he called?"

“He hasn’t,” Arthur says, before it can hurt. Just like a Band-Aid. He clenches his jaw and tries not to show it.

Eames stabs the last of his chicken. "Then he damn well shouldn't expect you to pick up now."

Arthur watches the phone, waits out the vibrations until it gives up and goes to voicemail. If Dom leaves a message, Arthur already knows he’ll listen to it. He owes them at least listening to a voicemail.

If they want him to come back, though, what will he do? It’s difficult. He doesn’t want to be beholden to Dom and Mal, but there’s still that thread between them--the promise of being asked back, the refusal to break up, the years between them. But now he thinks he's beholden to someone else. Eames loves him. He’s said so. He’s put up with all of this. And now he’s sitting across from Arthur, frowning into his lunch, looking like Arthur’s offended him by having a phone Dom can reach at all. 

He’s right to be offended, because it’s difficult for Arthur to know what he’ll have to do.

Eames, who has gotten too good at reading Arthur, says, "And if he invites you back?"

Arthur’s skin feels tight. “I don’t know,” he says. “Eames, I don’t even know what he wants.” _Voicemail_. The notification flashes across the screen. “Maybe I should at least hear what he wants before everyone freaks out.”

He means himself, as well, but he probably shouldn’t be surprised that Eames takes it personally.

"Fine," Eames says shortly. "You're going to anyway, so just go on."

Arthur realizes in an instant that this is a big deal. The realization crashes into him. As soon as he listens to the message, he sees, it won’t matter what Dom says--it’s going to be something that’ll ruin everything Arthur’s got here. He can hear it in Eames’s voice. He swallows down dread before it can get in the way of his thinking clearly. 

“Not yet,” he says. “It can wait. I thought you wanted dessert.”

"Not especially," Eames says, "at this point."

Arthur bites back the urge to say, _I didn’t do anything wrong._ He says, “All right. Let’s pay first, anyway.”

"I've got it," Eames says quickly. He never offers to pay.

Arthur sits in silence and lets him pay. A hundred different versions of what Dom wants try to play through his mind, and he pushes back at them. It’s like pushing back the tide. It would be nice, he thinks, if Eames wasn’t upset with him. It would be nice if the nagging thought that Dom and Mal want Arthur back wasn’t dragging him with magnetic force. He wants not to leave so badly he feels sick. Even so, half of him is already sifting through the apartment, finding all the things he’s tucked away that will need to be repacked.

Maybe he won’t even call Dom back.

They leave, and Eames hails a cab without saying anything. He doesn't even look at Arthur. They're halfway back to the apartment before he says, "You don't have to listen to it, you know."

“Are you sure about that?” Arthur says. “What if something’s wrong and I don’t answer? How do you think I’d feel. I owe them that much, anyway.”

Eames mouths _owe them_ incredulously. "I'm not sure nothing's _wrong_. They're probably just annoyed that you haven't begged them to let you come back."

“Don’t get nasty,” Arthur says tightly. He never gets carsick, but the motion of the cab is making him nauseous.

"I'm not trying to be," Eames says. "Not to you. I think you've done well, for god's sake. You're your own person. But that doesn't mean they know that."

“Can we not talk about this until I know what’s going on?” Arthur says. He leans his head against the cool glass of the back window.

Eames doesn't even answer. He just looks out the window, pays the cab driver when they get home, and goes upstairs. By the time Arthur catches up, Eames is in the middle of the room, holding Tira like a baby and muttering to her.

Arthur has a flare of temper. “I’m listening in the bathroom,” he says. He doesn’t _not_ slam the door on his way in. He’s angry, by now, and his stomach is twisting into shapes he didn’t know it could. He feels like a bastard thinking it, but he doesn’t want Dom to mess this up. He doesn’t want it to end. He’s almost convinced he can say no if Dom asks him to come back, but he doesn’t quite believe in his own willpower.

Or, not his own willpower. He doesn’t know if he'll be able to justify the thing he wants instead.

_Maybe you don’t have to._

He has a moment of exhilaration when he thinks it. He doesn’t have to be faithful. _They_ weren't faithful. If they’re just calling to put him off, it'll be easy. If they’re calling to summon him home like nothing happened--he won’t go. He won’t. He doesn’t have to, and he won’t. He’ll take the whole entire loss, them, the kids, everything. 

The thought makes him dizzy, but not only bad dizzy. He is relieved, as he hits play and puts the phone to his ear.

First, there's a long pause. Then Dom's voice, scratchy and strange. "Arthur...I need you to come home. As soon as possible. Something...went wrong." He clears his throat. He sounds dazed. "Mal's sick. We were asleep for...It doesn't even feel like you're real. Come home and prove me wrong." The message ends abruptly.

The first thing Arthur thinks is how unfair it is, followed by icy, gut-deep fear. He plays the message again, two, three more times. He hovers between calling Dom back and handing the phone to Eames. What did they do? What did they screw up? What does Dom mean by _sick_? He stands there with the phone just sitting in his hands for several minutes. He’s not used to freezing up, but he’s frozen.

There's a gentle tap on the bathroom door. "Arthur?" Eames calls. "Look, come out, love. Tell me what he wanted."

Arthur stirs. He lets himself out of the bathroom and wordlessly hands Eames the phone.

Eames takes it, frowning, and listens to the message. He listens twice. "Well," he says. "I don't know what to say."

“I should call him back,” Arthur says, half because he should, and half as a test.

"I know someone," Eames says quickly. "Over in the States. Someone who could check on them. I knew this would happen eventually--they're too experimental."

“That’s not what he’s asking for,” Arthur says, because it isn’t, they’re asking for _him_ , because something’s really wrong.

"I know," Eames says calmly. "I know, but you don't have to give him what he's asking for. Listen, if I'd gone back to every bastard who said he needed me--You just don't have to."

Arthur shakes his head slightly. “I have to call him back, at least,” he says. Eames’s suggestion of a proxy was probably not supposed to decide him, but it did. He can’t not call and not find out. He can’t have that on him.

"Fine," Eames says, holding up his hands. "You can tell him I told him this would happen."

Arthur shakes his head again. “I’ll be outside,” he says.

Eames doesn't say anything, just shrugs and folds his arms.

Arthur tries to shake him off as he jogs downstairs. He walks a little ways down the street before he makes the call. 

Dom picks up on the first ring. "Arthur?" he sounds panicked. Arthur has never heard him sound like that before.

“Hey,” says Arthur. “I got your call.”

"Are you on your way?" Dom demands. He still sounds wrong. "Arthur, I did--Something happened. Mal won't believe the kids are real. She won't believe anything's real."

“What the hell does that mean?” Arthur says. It’s nice out, but he feels cold. “What did you do, Dom?” 

"I don't know," Dom says after a second. "It doesn't matter. What matters is, she thinks she's still asleep."

That’s horrific. Something to deal with. Arthur doesn’t see any easy way to deal with it, immediately. He says, “You said _we slept so long.”_

"Did I?" Dom asks. He's usually so precise. "It felt like forever, but it was just an afternoon. We just got a little lost."

“What does that _mean?”_ Arthur says again. He’s got some idea, now, and it’s putting a dull panic in the back of his throat.

Dom hesitates. "Limbo," he says, "I guess."

“But you got out,” Arthur says. Limbo is barely supposed to be real. If it is real, it’s supposed to be bottomless. There’s not necessarily an exit. Mal told Arthur that.

"Yes," Dom says distantly. "Yes, we got out. You can still get out if you die. It's just--It was hard to remember that. It was so long." He clears his throat. "I need you. Come home."

Arthur takes a quick breath. “What am I going to do for you, Dom? Do you think I’m going to be more real to Mal than her own kids?”

"I think you're going to help me!" Dom snaps. Then his voice softens, and Arthur realizes he's crying. "I can't be alone anymore. She's scaring me, Arthur. She wants to wake up, do you understand?"

He doesn’t, he doesn’t, and then he does.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “But I--Dom, you kicked me out. You _wanted_ me to leave.”

"No," Dom says. "No, that's not--I wanted to give you two a break from each other. But that's--don't be petty, can't you see how bad this is?"

Arthur wants to say he’s not being petty. The last two months flood him, every conversation with Eames, every good thing that he’s dared to think is better than home, and he wants to say, _It’s not petty to want this_ \--but he abruptly, very clearly sees how it could be. It was just a vacation. He misunderstood everything. Mal wants to kill herself, and he’s over here nursing hurt feelings. It’s enough that Dom is asking, isn’t it?

Is it? _I’ve sort of got something going on here,_ he wants to say. 

But he can’t say that. He can only say one thing.

“I’m still in Paris,” he tells Dom. “I have to book a flight.”

"I'll book it," Dom says. He sounds so grateful. "I'll take care of everything. Jesus, I'm so glad I got in touch with you."

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Of course. Just let me know where to be.” And he’ll be there. Eames is going to hate him for this. But he can come back--after this, he can come back. If that’s what’s right. He just can’t leave Mal and Dom hanging, that’s all. 

"I'll text you," Dom says, and he hangs up.

Back inside, Eames is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, playing with Tira. He looks up, half apprehensive, half hopeful. "How are they?"

The good thing, Arthur thinks, is that Eames will be okay. Eames is always okay, in the end. 

"Bad," he says. "It's bad." ]He pauses, but there’s no hiding it. "I told him I'd go."

Eames blinks. "Yeah," he says. "I thought maybe." He doesn't sound like he did. "But--you could come back, after you sort them out."

"Yeah," Arthur says. "I don't know how long it'll take, it's--" He just wants to warn Eames, in case Eames really plans to wait around, that it's bad and he doesn't know how to fix it. "Their vacation was a dream."

Eames grits his teeth. "Yeah," he says. "Got in over their heads, didn't they?" Arthur has never heard him lose control of his accent, but it slips into something different until he takes a deep breath and goes on. "I thought they might. Listen, can I help? Do you want me to come?"

What a mess that would be. And Arthur doesn't truly want Eames to see him with the Cobbs, even though he has plenty of times. It's different now, because they've made it different. Arthur doesn't think he can help Dom and Mal if he's too busy being ashamed.

"He's already booked the ticket," he excuses himself. "They only want me, anyway, and the situation is so screwed up."

"They only want you," Eames repeats. "Yeah. It's quite clear what everyone wants." He gets up off the floor. "Arthur. Tira, you could leave her here. I could take care of her while you go check on them." His voice cracks when he says it.

For a second Arthur is able to entertain the idea. Then, "No," he says. "I can't do that to you." Can't make him responsible for the cat, can't dangle the idea that he'll come back right away, can't demand that Eames still be interested when he's over his disappointment. It just won't work.

Arthur is burning to leave, and God, he doesn't want to go.

"Right," Eames says. "Okay. So you're just--off, then." He smooths his shirt self-consciously. "I expect I still owe you some money."

"No," Arthur says. "No, you don't owe me anything, I told you."

Eames makes a frustrated noise. "Are we just going to pretend this never happened, is that it? And we won't owe each other in any sense, and the next time I see you, it'll be on a job?"

Arthur stays calm, because he has to stay calm. "Eames," he says. "I can't. I can't argue with you. I have to go, I have to help, and I don't know what's going to happen. All right? I don't know, and I don't have a choice."

Eames stares at him. "All right," he says. "But I still do. You don't ever get to do this to me again, Arthur."

It may be as much as Arthur deserves, but it still hurts. He tries to imagine a world in which he's not susceptible to the Cobbs at all, in which he can promise and make good forever, and it just doesn't exist. He knows better than that. 

So this stupid fucking phone call is the end of it. _Break his neck,_ Arthur remembers Eames saying, and he wants to. He wants to fly all the way home just to kick the shit out of Dom Cobb, but--All right. That's all right. Or, it's _not_ all right, but it's what's happening, and it's something Arthur can deal with on the airplane.

"Sorry," he says. "You're right." He feels like he’s cracking in two. He looks around to start packing.


	32. 2.11 INTERRUPTION OF ARTHUR AFTER BREAKUP

Dom’s text comes halfway through Arthur packing. He checks it and doesn’t look at Eames, just doggedly keeps putting things in his suitcase. They’re not all the same things he came with. He packs Tira up last. He doesn’t really remember the last thing he says to Eames or what Eames says back. Whatever it is, it’s probably pretty terrible. It’s probably better to keep it obscured in the back of his mind. 

Arthur could cry, if he’s honest.

But there’s a driver in the cab, and people in the airport. You don’t want to make a scene like crying with airport security, especially not when you’re trying to speed a cat through customs without paperwork. There’s people on the concourse and people in the bathroom, and the bathroom smells and echoes anyway. Arthur’s flight is full, so he’s wedged for hours into the middle seat between two people who don’t look like they want anyone bawling into their shoulders.

Arthur wants to die. 

There’s another cab home. And then there’s Dom, and Mal, and the kids. Even Tira to worry about; she hasn’t liked this move.

Home is frightening enough that Arthur sheds the skin of the person he’s been for two months almost immediately. It’s a survival instinct. It’s an _other people’s survival_ instinct. There’s a lance of blazing fear that rides around, protruding from his chest. Dom was right to worry. Everything is terrible. Mal isn’t okay. Arthur has to help. There’s no time to feel things that want to suck him into an undertow.

Finally, three days after he gets home, Arthur takes the car out to get groceries. It’s only him. He’s driving for about five minutes before it all hits him like a giant has smacked him between the shoulderblades. It comes out as a horrible choked noise, and then he’s sobbing, lonely and disappointed and full of hate for himself, full of fear for Mal, full of so much loss he barely knows how to breathe.

He wants to go home, and he can’t. Would Eames even be there? By home he means the little Paris apartment, but he really means Eames. Arthur has spun it around in his head over and over, tried so hard to get around it, find a way to go back, to be allowed to call...but “You don’t get to do this twice,” is pretty decisive. 

It’s worse, somehow, because he’s had days to think about it, and he understands by now that Eames is okay.

It’s good. Really, it is. Objectively. If they’re not going to be together and it’s because Arthur has left, it’s better that Eames is okay. And he knows Eames is okay, because Arthur keeps playing their last conversation over and over in his head, keeps placing each of them in his mental construct of their tiny apartment, watching Eames’s body movement. Seeing where he didn’t reach out. Hearing how his voice didn’t rise. He protested, but he didn’t fight. That’s where the line is, right? If Eames protested, he was hurt; if he fought, then Arthur--well, then Arthur was worth fighting for.

But he didn’t fight.

A selfish, screaming child inside Arthur doesn’t want it to have been so easy to leave. He doesn’t want matter-of-fact ultimatums. He doesn’t want that look on Eames’s face, silently staring away from him before he’s even listened to the voicemail. Eames prophesying Arthur’s every move, and instead of engaging, going into early retreat. Arthur has no idea what Eames could have done to make it end differently, but he believes, utterly, that there had to have been a way.

But Eames didn’t really fight him. 

So Arthur must be a loss from which Eames can recuperate.

Arthur wants to drive the car into a tree.

He cries all the way to the grocery store and then spends ten minutes leaning on the wheel in the parking lot crying some more. He imagines Eames’s arms around him. He imagines saying, _I love you, I love you, please don’t let me go._

He’d been so happy. It’s bad enough he had to come back. It’s worse knowing there’s no longer anywhere to go.


	33. 2.6 AND RIGHT NOW WE’LL JUST TURN OUR ATTENTION TO SAD BREAKUP EAMES

Eames would like to say he leaves Paris because he's not the type to stick around and wallow, but really, the money is running out and he can't stand the sight of the places in his flat that Arthur isn't. He should have known what would happen and he didn't. He was a sucker and he's paying for it.

He flips through his list of identities, but none of them seem plausible. He tells himself he's acted through worse breakups, but the reality is, there's nothing worse.

When he thinks he'll be sick if he has to look at his kitchen counter another day, he leaves without paying his last month's rent and flies to Kenya to see Yusuf.

He’s at least called ahead. Yusuf meets him at the airport like harboring human disasters is so commonplace in his life that it’s not worth worrying about. Which is probably true. 

“Hello,” Yusuf says when he sees Eames. “I can tell this will be good. Did you bring a bag?”

"No," Eames says, realizing this for the first time. "No, there wasn't much worth bringing." Maybe he should have set fire to the place before he left. He flings himself on Yusuf and hugs him tightly as an excuse not to look him in the face.

“Oh, no,” Yusuf says kindly. He puts his arms around Eames and squeezes. “Oh, no, Eames, I’m sorry. Shall we go home? Let’s go home. Then you can tell me all about it, or drown your sorrows in whatever you’re willing to drink in front of me these days.”

"Anything," Eames says into Yusuf's shoulder. "I don't give a fuck. Take me home." Yusuf's kindness has done something horrible inside him, and he needs the space of the car ride to compose himself.

Yusuf, who’s more astute and also kinder than anyone deserves, leaves him alone the whole way home. He brings him inside and sits him down and, despite what either of them has said, starts him with water.

“All right,” Yusuf says.

"Don't say I told you so," Eames says shakily, "because believe me, I know. I--let Arthur live with me and it blew up in my face." Saying it makes him feel even sicker. Every time he remembers Arthur's phone ringing he thinks he might throw up.

Yusuf raises his eyebrows and sits down across from Eames. “Live with you, how long live with you that you didn’t even tell me about it?”

"Two months," Eames says. He feels stupid. That's hardly any time at all. "But I thought--" He takes a sip of water rather than let his throat close up with misery.

“What about the Cobbs?” Yusuf asks. “There must have been circumstances.”

"They kicked him out." Eames drinks more water. "He said he wasn't going back, though. Then there was an emergency and he just…"

Yusuf narrows his eyes. “Sounds like Cobbs, from all I know. What a pity. How exactly did they get him back?”

Yusuf is so comforting. Eames always wishes he wouldn't be, because it keeps putting him on the edge of tears. "By fucking up their lives so badly he wouldn't have a choice. Mal's lost touch with reality. It sounds like they got in too deep."

Yusuf wrinkles his nose. “Reckless, all the time. Your Arthur is an idiot if he thinks running back will help anything. You can’t just snap people out of it, when they forget which world is which. And since it sounds like it’s their own fault anyway, why fix anything? You can’t stop people like that from self-destructing.”

Eames clings to Yusuf's anger. "I know," he says. "Christ, I'm so _angry_." At Arthur, at the Cobbs, at himself. "All my last boyfriend did was rob me." He laughs sharply. He's out of water.

Yusuf takes the cup and fills him up again.

“He said he’d stay?” he says.

"Yes," Eames says miserably. "He said he'd stop waiting. He said he'd try it. I'm sorry, I haven't even bloody asked how you are." The words get strangled in his throat and now he is crying a little.

“I’m all right,” Yusuf says mildly. “There, there, Eames. Maybe he isn’t even worth it, the stupid man.”

"We do well together," Eames says. "That's the fucking awful part. He's easy to live with. I want to--" He laughs and buries his face in his hands. "I want to be honest with him."

Yusuf is silent for a minute, during which it occurs to Eames to wonder if he’s still upset about Arthur, conceptually. After all, Arthur is one of the reasons _they _didn’t work out.__

__“Are you easy to live with?” Yusuf says finally. “Sorry, that’s not it. I mean, did he agree to stay with you, or to stay away from them?”_ _

__"I don't know that he was in the right frame of mind to make the distinction," Eames says quietly. Maybe it was something that only looked like it was working due to circumstance. "But it felt like he wanted to be there."_ _

__“With you,” Yusuf says._ _

__"Yes," Eames says. "And--And I miss his cat." And with that he's crying properly._ _

__“The bloody idiot,” Yusuf says. He rubs Eames’s shoulder. “You’re sure he’s not coming back?”_ _

__"Yes," Eames says. "But he has my number, if he changes his mind." He wipes his eyes. "It's a shame I couldn't stick with you, like a sane person."_ _

__“He has your number,” Yusuf mutters scornfully. “Yes, you’re right, you are crazy not to have stayed with me. Running off leaving you for a couple of narcissists. I thought he was supposed to be the sensible one.”_ _

__"It's not all his fault," Eames says unhappily. He'll be angrier at Arthur later. He's sure of it. Right now he can't seem to get there. "That's how abuse works."_ _

__Yusuf winces. “There’s something I’d rather not know. But I guess I did, because of that whole Brussels thing, of course!”_ _

__Eames gives Yusuf a weak smile. "Brussels thing?" he says._ _

__“Yes, yes,” Yusuf says. “When he showed up here and I sent him to you in Brussels! I knew there had to be something wrong with them. If there wasn’t, they could have found you for him themselves easily enough.”_ _

__"Yusuf," Eames says, "You never told me _that_." Arthur came all the way out here? Why?_ _

__“I thought I did.” Yusuf shrugs. “Anyway, he came here because _you_ told him you were staying with a friend in Mombasa--which I did not appreciate, by the way, that _friend_ thing.”_ _

__Well, this is a colossal missing piece. Eames is apparently a very poor detective. "He came all the way to Mombasa looking for me?" he asks hollowly. He owes Yusuf, and probably more than just another half-hearted apology._ _

__“Mm,” says Yusuf. “And I barely got him to spend the night before he rushed off to catch another plane.” He sighs. “They must have a tight hold, given how much he likes you.”_ _

__"I'm just extremely goddamn lucky that I have such a good place to land," Eames says. He grabs Yusuf's hand and squeezes it. He doesn't want to think about how much Arthur likes him, because it doesn't matter, does it? Eames will just stay here with Yusuf and his aggressive normality until a job comes up._ _

__Yusuf pats his hand. “You’ll be all right,” he says. “It’s very sad to have your heart broken, but I promise you will be all right sometime.”_ _

__"It's very sad," Eames repeats. "Thanks, Yusuf." That's about all he has room in his head for at the moment, so it'll have to do._ _


	34. 5.7 UNE SCENE DI BREAKUP

For months, everyone in the Cobb house is on crisis alert at every moment. They reason with Mal, they send her to doctors, she performs so perfectly that no one outside their home understands that something is horrifically wrong. Dom is a tearful, sniping mess. Mal’s parents are angry, keep trying to take her away, keep blaming Dom with the kind of rage that only appears when someone is slowly killing your child. James and Philippa are acting out at daycare and school--Arthur keeps having to pick them up early and find endless things to do with them, things that they don’t enjoy, that keep them out of the house their mother is haunting, almost unrecognizable. He’s juggling them and all the emergencies, all the errands, all the things Dom decides he can’t handle. 

And then things quiet down. For awhile--for weeks--Arthur and Dom both think Mal is over the worst of it. She is calm, she is sweet, and she arranges her wedding anniversary like usual. They’re so relieved, until everything comes crashing down.

The last three weeks have been a nightmare. Arthur felt something shutter itself in him the minute Dom called. Dom didn’t even call until afterwards. He didn’t even call until he was at the fucking airport, and Arthur barely caught up with him before his plane took off. So that’s been the last three weeks: hopping from place to place, trying not to get seen or extradited, Dom talking in reasonable tones while staring into nothing like a coming tsunami. They can’t call the kids. They can’t go to the funeral. Arthur is there because he’s half sure Dom will kill himself, too, if someone’s not there to witness him. 

But for that, Arthur might as well be cardboard, invisible, just a stranger. 

Dom, insanely, is trying to get work in the middle of his raging grief, and Arthur, in the middle of his, is tagging along at his heels making sure he doesn’t screw up and make any more enemies than he already has. 

Arthur is trying to keep things calm, but Dom wants to eat something alive, and Arthur is the closest thing available. They’re having a lot of fights. 

It’s in a crappy hotel in Málaga that the bad one happens.

“We’ve got seven hours,” Arthur says. “You should get some rest. You haven’t slept since we finished the last job, you look like crap.”

"I was asleep for the whole of the last job," Dom snaps. "And I don't need a babysitter." He keeps doing this, brushing Arthur aside like he's not even worth responding to.

“Fine, you don’t need a babysitter,” Arthur says. He hasn’t slept, either, and his temper is starting to fray. The night view out the window is gorgeous, even if the hotel isn’t, but Arthur can’t bring himself to care. He hates this city, he hates every city, he’s trapped in a little whirlpool of misery with the worst version of someone who’s never been that nice, and all either of them can think about is how Mal is dead. He adds, “But you need a fucking nap. Actual sleep, Dom, god damn it. I’m not just saying it for you.”

Dom stares at him (past him) and says, "If you can't handle this, why don't you go home, huh?"

“Where the hell is that?” Arthur retorts. “I’m not going anywhere, I just want you to take a _little bit_ of care of yourself. I’m not asking for miracles or anything. Just go to bed, eat meals, don’t get yourself killed.”

"Why?" Dom demands sharply. He's still not looking at Arthur. "Who's it gonna matter to, if we live or die?" He casually sweeps Arthur into the statement, too.

“Your kids, Dom,” Arthur says. “You remember your kids? And I’m not planning on dying, so it matters to me, too. Not that I think you give a damn lately.”

Now Dom does look at him, eyes burning. "Why are you even here? She's gone. The kids aren't your family. Why are you here?"

Arthur tries not to flinch at the family thing. It’s not like he hasn’t entertained the idea of leaving them, kids and all. It’s not like he has any high ground to stand on. It shouldn’t hurt.

“Because we’re in a god damned relationship,” he says. “Because I’ve been with you for three and a half years and I’m not quitting now just because you’re trying to destroy yourself. Didn’t I come back when Mal got sick? I don’t just quit, Dom.”

He thinks for just a second of Eames’s face, and his mind whispers, _You should have._

But it’s too late for that. 

Dom clenches his fists and says quietly, "God damn it, Arthur." His voice rises. "God _damn_ it! What the hell are you getting out of this?"

“We’re in the middle of a crisis,” Arthur says. “Am I supposed to tell you I’m having a great time right now? Nobody’s having a great time, that’s not the _point.”_

"You're not helping," Dom says, his voice sinking practically to a whisper. "You're--smothering me. I don't have anything to give you right now, do you understand?"

Horribly--and it takes him a moment to realize how horrible it is--it hasn’t occurred to Arthur to expect anything. More horribly, he thinks, he’s not sure what he ever did expect. Dom and Mal liked him and wanted him, and he loved them back and made himself available. He doesn’t doubt they loved him. But he remembers Eames, only the second time they met, saying something like, _I suppose it’s meant to be equal, but I guess that it’s not,_ and Arthur just congratulating himself on not being that deluded.

Who wasn’t deluded, after all that?

“So, what?” he says. “You can’t have the person you really want, so you’re going to throw everyone else out, too?”

"I'm not throwing you out," Dom says, as if Arthur is irritating him. "I need a point man. But I don't need _this_."

In the moment, Arthur moves right past surprised, right past upset, and into pissed off. He stares at Dom for just a second, and then says, “Fuck you, Dom.”

"Come on, Arthur," Dom spits, "tell me you didn't want to stay in Paris when I called. So you came home just to act like a martyr? I don't have the energy for your shit right now."

Arthur is fed up and furious. “You’re damned right I wanted to stay,” he says. “Do you know how much better that was, than being with you? But you did call. _You_ fucked up. _You_ needed my help. So don’t feed me lines about _my shit_ , because you’re the one that needs me to deal with _you_. And as of your fucking phone call, I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

"Not my problem either!" Dom shouts. "Stay or go, but I can't carry you. I can't be your--boyfriend." He's not yelling by the end, but he sounds incredulous, almost.

“No fucking joke,” says Arthur bitterly.

"Take it or leave it," Dom says. "The door's over there."

If he leaves _just_ now, Arthur thinks, Dom won’t ever call him back. And then he’ll probably die.

“You need a point man,” he repeats.

He can see Dom visibly relax. When Dom speaks again, he isn't looking at Arthur at all. "Good. I have leads on the next two jobs. Get some sleep," he adds.

Arthur is dizzy with tiredness and anger. When he falls asleep, Dom is still up. Arthur wonders if Dom not sleeping is something he still has to fuss about. 

Tonight, he decides, he doesn’t give a shit.


	35. 2.13 AND THEN THEY ARE IN LOVE AND THEN MAYBE THEY AREN”T???? MOVIE TIME

Eames thinks of Arthur sometimes. Less often, as the months pass. The last time they spoke, it was like speaking to a stranger, and he's old enough now to stop putting himself through that kind of rubbish over and over again. It's a shame, and it's also difficult, because Arthur and Cobb are the talk of the dreaming underworld. But Eames does _try_ not to think of him.

He's in his favorite shabby hotel in his favorite city in the world, with an hour between him and dinner with Yusuf, when Cobb's number pops up on his phone. For a minute, he considers not answering, but--and fear spikes through him--what if something has happened to Arthur?

"Hello?" he says.

“Eames?” says Cobb.

_Fuck you,_ Eames thinks, before he remembers not to be emotionally involved. "Yeah," he says shortly.

“Thank Christ,” Cobb says. He sounds normal. It’s unexpected. Whatever Eames has heard, he doesn’t believe that Dom Cobb can recover from the death of his wife in months, or even years. They were too much one organism. And, from what he knows, the end was too awful.

Eames debates whether he can just hang up. But that still wouldn't tell him if Arthur is all right. "Everything all right there?" he inquires, matching Cobb's tone.

“All right?” Cobb laughs. “Well, we’re in one piece, but tell you what, we’re in a bit of a bind. There’s money in it, and you wouldn’t be in any danger. That’s all on our heads, until we do this job.”

Eames doesn't like that one bit. Money or no money (and he could really use the money), he doesn't trust how cheerful Cobb is. "Our heads," he echoes. "You and Arthur?" No harm in clarifying.

“Yeah, me and Arthur, who else?” Cobb says.

Eames breathes a tiny sigh of relief. Not that it matters. Not that he's going to have anything to do with this. "So you must be running through forgers as fast as you are architects, as I understand it," he says.

“Nice to see you haven’t lost the personality,” Cobb says. “You know it’s hard to hang on to a good forger when the only one worth shit is hiding out on the other side of the world.”

Eames shudders involuntarily. He doesn't want Cobb's damn compliments. He doesn't want anything to do with him. "Working with you could ruin my career for life, you know."

“You’re exaggerating,” Cobb says.

Eames isn't, but there's no point saying so. "How much money?" He wants to say, _Let me talk to Arthur._

Cobb names a sum. It’s obscenely large.

"Who else on the team, besides you and Arthur?" God, Cobb must be desperate to be asking him.

“Got a new girl on board as architect,” Cobb says. “She’s like me—literally trained as an architect. Clever, quick on her toes, too.”

Eames doesn't ask any of several questions. He doesn't even ask what the job is. He can't believe how normal Cobb is acting. It's possible the rumors were exaggerated. "Well. I'll discuss the job, at least. One condition, you come here. Or Arthur. I'd discuss it with him." He hadn't meant to add that last bit.

“I’ll come,” Cobb says. “Tell me where to find you, and when.”

Eames sighs. "Mombasa. I'll be at the Senator Casino. Whenever you like. I'll probably be there regardless."

“Don’t spend it before we earn it,” Cobb says. “I’ll give you a call if something comes up between here and there. Give me a solid day.”

"Don't blame me if I'm drunk," Eames says. He hangs up without saying goodbye. Who the hell does Cobb think he is, calling up after complete radio silence? Maybe he and Eames have never been friends, but Eames would rather not be treated like a tool to be used at Cobb's convenience.

The problem is, the job has piqued his interest. It sounds big, and exciting, and for that much money, it must really be something. And besides, he'll get to talk to Arthur face to face and find out what the hell.

He realizes he's late for dinner with Yusuf and goes to find his shoes, swearing under his breath.


	36. 2.15 TWO DAYS LATER - EAMES HAS A TERRIBLE PROPOSAL

Yusuf has had a very good day. He does not work normal weeks, so he does not have days off, but on this day he got several things done that aren’t directly related to his job, which always feels satisfying. He also got to spend a good forty minutes sitting in a comfortable chair with his cat upside down in his lap, purring. And now he is having an after dinner drink with Eames, at Eames’s hotel, because Eames called and asked for one. 

It’s good to be wanted, assuming you’re not wanted for the crimes you’ve committed or for the crimes you may be compelled to commit by people who are supposed to be your friends. There is always, unfortunately, the chance of that with Eames. Yusuf tries to figure out if that is happening, over his beer. Since they’re having their drink in Eames’s room rather than the bar, he sadly suspects it is so.

“So how are you doing?” Yusuf says, as if they have not recently seen each other.

"Fine," Eames says. He sounds just as distracted as he did the other night. Not a good sign. He taps his finger on the side of the glass and frowns. "You're between jobs at the moment, yes?"

“I may be,” Yusuf says, frowning.

"I might have something," Eames says. "It'd be very unique. Very challenging." 

What a compelling and not remotely alarming lead-up. Yusuf says so.

"It's Cobb, is the thing," Eames says. "Cobb and Arthur."

“You’re fucking with me,” Yusuf says, surprising himself--then briefly considering what Eames has said, and deciding he’s not surprised at himself after all. “You have to be completely insane, don’t you?” He puts his beer down, then immediately picks it up again to take a gulp.

Eames looks at Yusuf for a second, and Yusuf _knows_ that look. It's the one Eames gets when he's trying to decide which tactic will be the most effective. "It's a lot of money," he says finally. "A _lot_."

“Well, and wouldn’t it have to be?” says Yusuf vigorously.

Eames lays out his next card. "I need this job, and I don't think it'll work without your skillset. Yusuf, I have to see how he's doing."

“No, no,” Yusuf says, shaking his head. “No, you don’t. Absolutely you don’t. Going on at me about money--absolutely not.”

"They want to perform inception," Eames says.

“Good lord,” says Yusuf. This card is the worst of all.

"Do you see why I'm interested?" Eames throws back his head and drinks half of what's in his glass. "The money, the project, and...well, I just have to see that he's all right."

“If he is now he won’t be when they’re done,” Yusuf says. “What a terrible idea. Who on?”

Eames shrugs. "Some businessman. I don't imagine it'll stick, but what if it does? That would repair any damage we did to our reputations by working with Cobb.”

“My reputation is golden,” Yusuf says. “Why would I tarnish that? Eames, really. What can you possibly find out that will make it worthwhile?”

Eames sighs and rests his chin on his hands. "I don't know," he says. "Tell you the truth, I've been going back and forth with it for days. It honestly is just professional curiosity as much as anything else. But I've been hearing so many wild rumors lately, and it'd be nice to see how things are."

Yusuf isn’t going to make any assumptions about how nice it would be. He’s heard the same rumors Eames has. Cobb and Arthur have been skirting disaster since Mal died. The only reason they’re still getting work is that the people who hire people like Cobb are not all as clever or current as they think they are. If they’d known anything at all, they would have known that Dominic Cobb without his wife is a grenade with the pin pulled.

“How and when did you find out about this, anyway?” Yusuf asks, deciding to table Eames’s answer for the moment.

Eames cuts his eyes to the side. "Cobb came to see me yesterday." He sighs. "No. Sorry. He _called_ me the day before, right before I saw you."

“Ah!” Yusuf says, pointing at him. “Ahh! I knew you were acting sneaky! You weren’t already planning to say yes then, were you?”

"I hadn't decided!" Eames says. "Christ, you're hard to lie to. I told Cobb to fly out and tell me more. He told me more, and I said yes. It's for this really outrageous man. Owns an energy company or something. Proclus Global."

Yusuf startles at that. He might keep himself belowground, for the most part, but he does keep an ear to the outside world.

“You’re kidding,” he says.

"Damn," Eames says. "Can't get anything past you. The owner seems all right, though! Saito."

“He seems like he’d be terrifying,” Yusuf says. “So why did Cobb ask you? Is he desperate or just obtuse?”

"It's Cobb," Eames says. He drains his glass. "So always a bit obtuse, yeah? As far as he's concerned, I don't think we have a problem with each other. But he's got to be running low on people who will work with him, too. Did you hear about--? But anyway, I've already said yes."

“You would!” Yusuf says accusingly.

"Well, what?" Eames shrugs defensively. "Give me a beer."

Yusuf hands him a fresh bottle and says, “What am I supposed to do now, hm? I’ll have to go with you because I know any other chemist might kill you all! You’re really a bit of a bastard, you know.”

"I know," Eames says, and at least he doesn't sound pleased about it. "But think how it'll look on your resume if we manage it."

“You need better taste in men,” Yusuf says, shaking his beer at Eames. “Of all the idiotic things you’ve dragged me into over an ex, this is the worst.”

"Oh, by the way," Eames says, opening his beer. "In the interest of full disclosure, Cobol Engineering has it in for Cobb, pretty seriously."

Yusuf swears and swears, but he doesn’t back out now. It’s just not the way he works.

"I really think we could do it," Eames says, "although possibly that's the beer and the gin talking."

“I think I like you better when you aren’t drinking,” Yusuf says. “All right. Yes. Inception is interesting, _if_ you can do it, and yes, I can do my part.” No false modesty there. “But I don’t guarantee I am going to be happy about it, Eames. I don’t like that man at all. Is it only the four of us?”

"No, they've hired an architect," Eames says. "Odd, that. Some student from France."

“A neophyte, wonderful,” Yusuf says. “Just what you need to do something incredibly difficult under the watchful eye of one of the world’s most powerful men, in the company of a loose cannon who’s being hunted by a massive corporation. Well, when I put it like that, I wish we’d started yesterday.”

Eames laughs unhappily. "You forgot the bit where I'll be compromised by my emotions."

Yusuf shakes his head. “No, no. I never forget that.”

"Ah," Eames says. "Well. If nothing else, you'll get to experience Cobb firsthand. Hold me back if I try to damage him. That'd be bad for the paycheck."

“Hmm,” Yusuf says. “Maybe I’ll hope something goes just a little bit wrong. Just enough to blacken Cobb’s eye.”

"This is why you're my best friend," Eames says with absolute and embarrassing sincerity.

Yusuf thumps him on the back. “It’s good practice,” he says. “Next maybe we can incept your boyfriend into having better taste than you.”

"Boyfriend," Eames mutters. "God, this is going to be painful. Oh well, too late now. At least the money's good."

“Ah,” says Yusuf. “We agree at last.”


	37. 3.1 SHORTLY THEREAFTER - INCEPTION! ARIADNE WILL LIKE SOME FOOLS

“All right, you’re here, that’s the job, that’s the team--get to know each other,” Cobb says. “I have to make a call.”

He lets the door slam on his way out. Ariadne looks around and considers what she’s seeing--namely, she tries to decide how she feels about being left in a warehouse with three strange men (definitely criminals) whom Miles hasn’t vouched for.

"So," Eames says, turning to her immediately, "any real-world experience?"

 

“What?” Ariadne says, startled. “Oh. No. I guess not.”

Yusuf groans. "Eames! Worse and worse!"

"I did tell you she was a student," Eames says.

"No, _you,_ " Yusuf says. "So rude!"

“Cobb has reasons for choosing her,” Arthur says, to Ariadne’s tentative relief. Arthur seems nice. Respectful, too, in a genuine way.

"Cobb always chooses well," Eames says scathingly. He hasn't looked at Arthur once since he's come into the room, and he doesn't now.

“Well, he chose you, didn’t he,” Arthur says, and Ariadne sincerely can’t tell whether it’s a jibe or a compliment.

"Well," Yusuf says, "Ariadne won't have to be in the field, anyway. She's just designing it. For some reason." He's hovering by Eames's elbow, looking anxious.

Ariadne takes offense, but she also understands that Arthur is the one who works with Cobb all the time, so Arthur is the one being questioned with this half-statement. Still, she can’t just let people walk all over her.

“Because I’m a good architect,” she says. “And it sounds like we’re doing something completely crazy.”

"So you've noticed," Eames says. "See, I was wondering if he hired someone from outside so you wouldn't notice how crazy it was. That's all."

“If it wasn’t a little crazy I wouldn’t have bothered to be here,” Ariadne says, which is maybe putting up a bit of a front, but it’s basically true.

Yusuf sighs and flings himself down in a chair. "Oh, god. They're all like this. We're going to die. So! Arthur! How are things? I hear you're on the run from a number of dangerous corporations."

Eames snorts.

Ariadne watches to see if he and Arthur will look at each other yet. They don’t. Arthur, who is standing with his hands in his well-pressed pockets, says, “Only the one. And this will take care of it.”

"Oh well," Yusuf says. "We're already here, so there's no point criticizing the job. Right, Eames?"

"I wasn't criticizing the _job_ ," Eames says. He trails off and now he does look up at Arthur, with a pained expression that quickly turns into a smile. "Oh, Arthur. That vest is too much. Just awful."

“Sorry to offend you,” says Arthur. He shifts his shoulders like he’s trying to shake out a pain.

“What about you?” Ariadne says quickly, to Yusuf. “What’s your background? Why are you here?”

"The money," Yusuf says, but he glances at Eames when he says it. "Or, well, consider it a favor. It's a very unique job. I'm a chemist, and this is a rare opportunity to try out compounds most people would never let me put in their bodies."

It’s hard to scare Ariadne, so she just nods and files it away. “You’ve been a chemist--like, for the dreams--a long time?”

"Right out of school," Yusuf says, "and that was a long time ago now. I learned I'd rather make money doing that than working for a big lab." He gives her a broad, genuine smile. "Are you enjoying it, the dreaming?"

Ariadne nods enthusiastically. “It’s incredible,” she says. “I never even thought of doing it--but everything I can think of, it just _works_ \--I mean, to be honest, in the real world I like that you have to listen to physics and reason everything out, but it’s just a completely different type of logic in there and it’s so--beautiful, I guess? I wish I had more time to just play around in it, first, I mean I hope I get to afterwards. Um,” she says. “I really like it.”

Arthur smiles at her. “You are going to do a great job,” he says.

Now Eames's eyes are fixed on Arthur like laser beams. "So we're all the best at what we do, then. Let's just hope that's good enough. Cobb didn't want to design the levels?"

Arthur’s smile slips away and he turns to face Eames, serious. “I guess he didn’t,” he says. “How’s your plan coming along for Fischer Jr.?”

"As well as ever," Eames says smoothly. He turns to Ariadne. "Which is to say, very well. Don't worry, Arthur, my skills haven't gotten rusty. He's quite something, isn't he? Fischer?"

“What’s that mean?” Arthur asks.

Ariadne wonders, briefly, why two people who clearly hate one another are working together and, more importantly, involving her. She exchanges a look with Yusuf, who is kind enough to give her the same look back.

"Oh, the pictures don't do him justice," Eames says.

Yusuf sighs loudly.

“I wasn’t really paying attention to his looks,” Arthur says, frowning. “Does that mean you were just planning to flirt him into inception, or what.”

"Just an added benefit," Eames says, practically through his teeth. He's still smiling, though.

Ariadne wonders if they’re about to fight one another, or if this is all in good fun and she’s just reading it wrong. She’s been known to read things wrong, in the past, that people have said and done. 

“Does anyone know if there’s something to drink around here?” she ventures. “I mean--water.”

“Yeah, I stocked a fridge,” Arthur says, looking more relaxed as soon as he looks at her. It warms Ariadne’s heart, and she thinks _Uh oh._ That could be dangerous. He is older, a stranger, and definitely a criminal. Do not, Ariadne, go down that path.

“This way,” Arthur adds, and beckons her to follow him to the other side of the broad, open room. He doesn’t really have to lead her, and he stops short of the fridge without actually pointing it out. “You doing okay so far?” he asks.

“Sure,” Ariadne says, digging a bottle of water out of the fridge. The burst of cold air is a relief. “Are you and Eames…?”

“Just some history,” Arthur says. “Don’t worry. He’s really a nice guy, he won’t bite you. He just doesn’t love me.”

“If you say so,” says Ariadne. She tells herself to let it go, for once in her life.

When they go back, Arthur takes a seat and stares blankly towards a window without saying anything. The window is too high to see out of.

"Can I just say, I'm not putting up with this for the whole mission," Yusuf says. "Eames."

"Just some friendly banter," Eames says unhappily. It's the first time Ariadne has seen him drop the smile and the sleazy manner.

Ariadne wonders if it’s worthwhile to try and get life stories out of either Eames or Arthur, or if she should just sit quietly until Cobb gets back and they can do something distracting, like work.

“Who likes Indian food?” she says. Oh, god.

"I'm starving, actually," Eames says.

"Ugh, not Indian," Yusuf says.

“It was the first thing that came into my head,” says Ariadne. “I’m not committed to it.”

“Salad,” Arthur says. She’s the only one looking at him, so she thinks she’s the only one who realizes it’s a joke.

"Of course!" Eames says. "Salad. If he eats at all."

"My god," Yusuf says. "I'm going to kill you. I could eat a greek salad."

“I was just,” says Arthur.

“Is there an honest to god salad place?” Ariadne says. “Around _here?”_

"No," Yusuf says mournfully. "Probably not, because this is a horrible pit. Let's get pizza."

"We're not getting pizza delivered to our secret warehouse," Eames says. "Trust me, I've made that mistake before." He half turns to Arthur with a smile and then stops. The movement and the expression just drop and turn into nothing.

Ariadne wonders exactly what she’s put herself in the middle of, and if she can maybe just go back to school now.

Arthur says, in his very serious, calm voice, “There’s food in the fridge. Sandwiches and things.”

There is food in the fridge. Ariadne saw it. She thinks they’re homemade sandwiches, not store bought.

"You got food?" Eames's voice is totally unreadable. "You must have, because it damn well wasn't Cobb."

“I did,” says Arthur, “excuse me.” And then he leaves.

Eames immediately leans forward and buries his face in his hands.

"Well, don't be so mean, then," Yusuf says. "Sorry, Ariadne, this job is a hotbed of interpersonal disasters."

“I sort of noticed,” Ariadne says. “I’m assuming there’s nothing I can do to help?”

"Nobody can help," Yusuf says. "Don’t worry, just a bad breakup."

Eames clenches his fist, but he sounds perfectly pleasant. "Thank you, Yusuf. That's not entirely accurate and it’s really nobody's business. Arthur and I just don't mesh well. He's a robot and I'm a human, to begin with."

"Almost human," Yusuf mutters.

“He seems nice to me,” Ariadne says, a little irked on behalf of the only person who’s been actively welcoming to her this entire time.

"He is," Yusuf says. "It's this one who's being the problem."

"You don't even think that," Eames says dubiously. He's not doing very well at keeping his tone light.

“Well, is it going to be all right?” Ariadne says. “The job, I mean.”

"If it's not, it won't be because Arthur and I can't get along," Eames says. "We've worked together through worse."

“I’ll take that as an encouragement,” Ariadne says.

"How's Cobb?" Yusuf asks. "All right? He's pleasant to you, and all that?"

“Sure,” says Ariadne. “I mean, the guy’s a little intense, but just--hyperfocused. He’s been fine to me.”

"He's a real character," Yusuf says.

"He's a real ass." Eames gets up to pace. "How does Arthur seem?"

Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “Oh, now you want to know?” she says.

"Forget it," Eames says.

"We wouldn't even be here if he didn't want to know," Yusuf says.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable,” Ariadne says.

"It's fine," Eames says. "I can tell how he is, anyway. From interacting with him. Where the hell did he go?"

“I think he was trying to stop you interacting with him,” Ariadne tells him.

"So this is going well," Yusuf says. "I would have stopped you, if I were him. Don't worry, Ariadne, this will look good on your resume, and at least you can laugh at us later."

"Stop it!" Eames says sharply. "And don't tell strangers my personal business, please. You don't know her. She could be anyone."

“I know a spy would say this,” says Ariadne, “but I’m really normal.”

She’s not entirely normal, but they don’t need to know that, Cobb doesn’t need to know that, and the ways in which she is not normal are in no way going to make her use Eames’s personal life as leverage.

"See?" Yusuf says. "Oh, you mean what if she was really homophobic, or something? She's definitely not. She's young and cool."

"On second thought," Eames says, "there are a lot of good chemists."

“Oh my god,” Ariadne says, backtracking for all of them. She waves her hands in front of her. “That’s the opposite of what I am, how do I come off homophobic, oh my god!” That would be horrifying, but what if it explains how few dates she’s been on in the last six months? What is her vibe? Is it terrible?

Eames seems to really look at her for the first time. He smiles. "No," he says. "Sorry. But you never know, and I'm not sure how professional it is to have my business--and more importantly, Arthur's, he's the private one--spread all over the place."

“I don’t need to know anything,” Ariadne says. “I’m just here for the job, remember? Just one job. And I don’t really talk to people anyway, so, your secrets won’t go further than me.”

"Good," Eames says, relieved. "I don't want to gossip about him. I'm just--checking up on him, that's all."

“No,” says Ariadne. “You’re here to con a rich guy and get paid a lot of money by an even richer guy.” She smiles. “And I’m here to build stuff.”

Eames shakes himself. "Well," he says. "At least one of us has some sense. Sandwich?"

They investigate the contents of the fridge, and they’re still over there when Arthur and Cobb come back.


	38. 3.10 THAT TIME THAT EAMES IS RUDE AND ARTHUR RUNS AWAY

Arthur beats a necessary retreat from the warehouse. It’s not a great place to be hanging out alone, but in the worst case scenario he’ll end up in a fight where he can actually aim a blow. Anyway, there’s only so much of Eames’s anger he can take. He doesn’t know why Eames and Yusuf took the job, unless it was so Eames could get revenge on Arthur. That seems to be the only thing he wants. Arthur couldn’t stop himself from being excited to see Eames, even knowing it would be terrible. He kept imagining, before he could tamp it down, that maybe he would—

But that’s over now. Everything, everything is over now.

Arthur malingers for a short while, walks the perimeter, checks his phone, keeps an eye open for Dom from the outside or anyone from the inside out.

He’s not completely sure how he’s going to do this, if Eames isn’t playing by the rules. It’s fair, probably, for Eames to be the angry one. But every word is barbed in a way it’s never, ever been before, and Arthur doesn’t think he can fight back.

It's not long before Dom returns, carrying a briefcase he didn't have before. He's always showing up with unexplained packages and cases lately, and not just since they took this job.

"You left?" he asks shortly. "Everyone getting along?"

“They’re all fine,” Arthur says. “Ariadne’s a nice girl.”

Dom actually looks pleased. "She is. She was...unexpected. Miles has good taste in students. I'm glad you like her." He says this last a little more aggressively than Arthur would prefer. It’s enough to be dumped without also being set up by your ex.

_Does Eames know?_ he suddenly thinks to wonder. Does Eames know that Arthur was dumped?

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. It _doesn’t_ matter. The reason Eames won’t look at him isn’t that Arthur’s unavailable, it’s that, once, Arthur made a choice to leave. Probably if Eames knew he was single, after all that, it would just make him angrier. Like Arthur left him for nothing.

Arthur says, “She’s fine. She and Yusuf are hitting it off.”

Dom waves a hand dismissively. "Yusuf. He's going to be a liability, I can tell. Although if we just keep the money flowing…" When he speaks, it's as if he's speaking to himself and Arthur isn't there at all.

“Yusuf’s good,” Arthur says. It’s weird to think that Dom doesn’t know him, when Arthur’s known him for years. “He’s dependable. And unshakeable, too. Don’t worry about Yusuf.”

"And you're not going to be weird about Eames?" Dom asks, startling Arthur. "I mean, we're working with him anyway."

“What’s there to be weird about?” Arthur says. His voice is even, for which he thanks himself.

Dom shrugs, apparently losing interest. "As long as everyone's professional." That's what they are now, professionals. As he keeps reminding Arthur. As Arthur is with everyone.

“And what about you?” Arthur says, in a flash of misplaced temper that comes out like condescension. “You keeping everything under wraps?”

Dom narrows his eyes. "What does that mean, huh?"

“She shot me, Dom,” Arthur says. “I don’t know if that makes me feel worse about your subconscious or your conscious feelings about me right now, but either way, we don’t need that here. Is she always there?”

Dom doesn't answer. For a minute, Arthur thinks he's not going to. Then he says sharply, "Why?"

“Why do you think?” Arthur says. “If it’s a one-time thing, don’t worry about it, I just--”

" _Don't worry about it._ " Dom sounds almost sarcastic. "How about _you_ don't worry about it, Arthur? How about you let me run my life?"

“It’s not just your life,” Arthur says, because if they screw up, who knows whether Saito will drop them in Cobol’s lap? Arthur would rather not get killed because Mal shoots him again.

"Do you trust me?" Dom says, steely. There's no warmth in it.

Arthur thinks, _What if--_

\--and then stops cold, because the only thing he can fix, literally the only thing, is being hunted down by an angry corporation. He can’t bring Dom back to what he was like with Arthur before. He can’t bring Mal back at all. He can’t run to Eames, desperate again, and expect anything but what he deserves.

God, he’d love to go home. If he can’t have anything else, he’d love to pick his cat up from the kennel and go to his own place and not talk to anyone or think about anything. He can be a beer person when he has the leisure to be. Maybe he could drink some beer.

He says, “I trust you, Dom.”

"Then we're good," Dom says. He doesn't look satisfied, because he never does these days, but he's not yelling or snapping. "Did you just need air, or--?" As if he's just realized Arthur is lurking outside.

“Wanted a smoke,” Arthur says. He doesn’t smoke, but it’s still true.

Dom nods. He always accepts Arthur's answers, if it's about emotion. He doesn't bother to press, now (ever). He only does that when it's about the details of a job. "Well. Don't forget, you're the one running point. And I mean before the job, too. Keep it all running with those three."

Arthur feels momentarily so weary he wants to sit down. It’s hell, isn’t it, this whole situation? It’s actually hell. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

"I know you do," Dom says. "That's why I have you." It catches Arthur off-guard, the way it's almost kind, until he remembers the context of all this.

“You’re all right, though?” Arthur says, knowing it’s stupid even while it’s coming out of his mouth.

Dom pauses and really looks at him. Arthur can't immediately think of the last time that happened. "I will be," he says.

“Then we’re all right,” Arthur says. “Let’s get back to work.”


	39. 3.2 THAT SAME DAY EAMES PROBABLY DOES TALK TO ARTHUR

Eames avoids being alone with Arthur for as long as he can, but inevitably, it happens. That bastard Cobb leaves them alone in the warehouse while he goes off to teach Ariadne something about building, and Yusuf has abandoned Eames to chase the dream of a salad. Really.

After about fifteen seconds of the most intense tension Eames has ever felt in his life, he says, "How're you managing to look so calm?"

“I have a job to do, Eames, there’s no point in getting fussy,” Arthur answers with barely a moment’s hesitation. He’s fiddling with a gun, which doesn’t really make Eames feel less tense.

"Just checking that this is where we're at," Eames says. Arthur has been nothing but coolly professional with him ever since--well, ever since Paris, actually. It hurts immensely.

“Is there anywhere else to be?” Arthur says, but hardly like a question. He glances up, and away, and shoves the handgun into its waiting holster, which he lets drop a few inches to the table. “Maybe you shouldn’t have told Cobb yes.”

_Cobb._

Whatever opened up in Arthur in Paris, and whatever started opening up before that, it's well and truly shut down again. "I told him yes because I liked the challenge and I liked the money," Eames says. "But it wasn't that long ago that we could be civil to one another."

“So be civil,” Arthur says. 

Eames grits his teeth. "I wanted to ask if you're all right." The rumors he's heard about Arthur and Cobb in the past few months are nothing short of horrifying.

“I’m fine, Eames,” Arthur says. “We just have to work together. Okay? Yusuf’s a pro. Ariadne will be great. The job will be fine.”

"Not the damn job!" Eames snaps. "Are we--is this what we're doing? Pretending to be business associates?" This is even worse than he expected. He doesn't know what he did expect.

“This is business, isn’t it?” Arthur says, in such a reasonable voice that Eames wants to scream. “No one needs to open up a can of worms in the middle of the hardest job any of us have ever taken on.” 

"You can't multitask?" Eames asks. He can feel himself sneering a little, but he can't help it, he's so _upset_. Arthur is acting like a stranger, and Eames can't think what he's done to deserve it. "I was just trying to be pleasant, but clearly that's beyond you."

“I didn’t know I was being unpleasant,” Arthur says, ludicrously. “I don’t have a problem with you, Eames. And I can’t make you any less angry.” 

Eames wasn't angry until right now. All he did was try to open Arthur's eyes a little. And maybe that's what this is about. Maybe Arthur is still reeling from the loss of Mal and he can't stand to look at the person who called her _abusive._ "I'm not angry," Eames lies. "I'm confused."

“It’s not complicated,” Arthur says. “It’s over. Can we just call a truce and leave it alone?”

A _truce_. Jesus. "We can leave it alone," Eames says numbly. He wants to punch Arthur in the face.

Arthur’s face, which Eames wants to punch, finally has an expression. He looks relieved. “All right,” he says. “Thanks.”

Eames goes back to playing with his whiteboard, which is what he was doing before Cobb left them stranded in this awkward situation. His chest aches with anger and regret. This is not how things were supposed to go. He was at least supposed to be able to talk to Arthur. But when Arthur shuts down, he does it so effectively that no one can get in. Eames might as well play the part and be in this for the money.


	40. 4.4 YUSUF AND ARIADNE R FRINEDS / 4.7 BACK TO YUSUF AND ARIADNE

Ariadne seems like a work-oriented young woman, but she certainly has a keen interest in all of them, as well. At first she seemed mostly to be watching Cobb, and then sticking up for Arthur, but she’s since worked her way over to Yusuf. He and she are the only two people in the building just now. He’s doing inventory, counting out what he has, what they’ll need, when he realizes that she’s standing not far off and watching him with her arms crossed.

“It’s an art, really,” he says. “An art that needs guinea pigs.”

"How'd you get into it?" she asks, eyeing his supplies. She's always a little too abrupt.

“Like I said,” he tells her cautiously. “I got involved in the field right out of school.” It wasn’t exactly right out of school, or at least not exclusively. It just took over more and more, as things went along. “I met a lot of people,” he says, “who were never going to live as well as they deserved, while they were awake. Other people were already helping them dream. I thought I could do it better.”

“I can,” he adds, in case she doubts his qualifications.

She gives him a look like maybe she thinks he's the creepiest person she's ever met, but she's not sure. "It's ambitious. Commendable. And how'd you meet these guys?"

“Ahh,” Yusuf says. “Eames. He’s an old friend. But the kind of old friend who drags you into terrible messes. Arthur I know because of Eames. And Cobb--I’ve encountered by reputation, but we’ve never been introduced before.”

Ariadne drifts a little closer. "I won't say anything about Eames, then. But seriously, what's wrong with everyone here? I get that they're criminals, but it's a lot to absorb."

“Well, Cobb,” Yusuf says. “He’s just not a very nice man, is he?”

"I'm not sure," Ariadne says. "I think his heart's in the right place, or I wouldn't have taken the job. But what do I know?" She sounds as if she's absolutely certain she does know, though.

“Mm,” says Yusuf, and changes direction before he talks her out of being here. Eames would not appreciate that at all. “Arthur is a mystery. Maybe you’ll sort him out.”

Eugh, why did he say that? He hopes she leaves Arthur alone.

To his dismay, she flushes slightly. "Yeah. He's nice. He's the only one who really took time to show me the ropes without blasting me in the face with glass." She rubs her face self-consciously. "You're friends with Eames. What's going on with those two?"

“Well,” Yusuf says. Good lord, this girl likes to corner people. But there’s a certain joy to gossip--and she seems all right, really. “I can’t say too much, since Eames will hear me by fantastical means and come in to shout at me--but if you like it plain and simple, they’re two idiots who like each other too much to kiss and make up. Anyway, it’s Cobb’s fault they’re split up, so you can only imagine how much drama all of this is going to be.”

"Cobb's fault?" Ariadne says critically, zeroing in on an unexpected part. "How?"

“Oh dear,” says Yusuf, looking around for Eames. “It’s complicated.” It’s not that complicated.

"If that's too complicated--" She doesn't sound convinced. "Maybe you can explain what exactly the deal is with Arthur and Cobb. They're business partners? They've worked together a while, obviously." 

Dear God.

“Can I ask you something, Ariadne?” Yusuf says. “Are you an architecture student, or are you an interrogator? You can’t be a spy because you don’t know how to lie. You only know how to burrow. Like a worm. No offense meant.”

Ariadne chuckles, thankfully. "I'm just trying to understand. I'm going into a pretty serious situation with these guys and their personal problems. I think it's fair to ask what they're repressing that's likely to leap out of their subconscious."

“Well, I can’t imagine Cobb’s over his dead wife,” Yusuf says. “Don’t think Eames or Arthur would give you any trouble, though. They’re professionals.”

Ariadne nods. "Thanks. I know Arthur is. I wasn't so sure about Eames. He's been so--immature. With Arthur, I mean."

“I’ve never seen him do less than a job requires,” Yusuf says. “And never mind him and Arthur. You won’t help them any by prying.”

Ariadne does not look convinced. "Maybe not, but it sounds like you've done your fair share of prying, if you know all of this."

“Yes, well, that’s what friendship’s for,” Yusuf says. “Anyway, sometimes you’re not prying. Sometimes you are just trying to mind your own business and terrible facts are dribbled all over you, against your will.”

"Ah," Ariadne says, as if he's just revealed a marvelous secret to her. "Got it. Look, I'm sorry. This is just a lot to be thrown into, and I'm coping the way I know how. I'm sorry if that seems like prying."

It seems like prying because it is prying, but Yusuf doesn’t say so. 

“Why did you say yes to this?” he says instead.

Ariadne doesn't even stop to think. "You've seen what we can do," she says. "How the hell could anyone say no to that? I had no idea any of this was possible." She looks at him gravely.

“Oh, sure it’s possible,” Yusuf says. “You know it always has been. Just more regimented now, is all. Is that the bit you like? Because you can’t tell me you’ve never dreamed at all.”

"It's nothing like normal dreaming," Ariadne says. "It's like the most advanced computer game I've ever seen. It's pure creative control in a completely realistic environment. It's like being God." She stops, looking embarrassed.

“It can be,” Yusuf agrees. “That’s not what everybody’s looking for. But it can be.”

"You asked what the appeal was for me," she says. "That's the answer. What about you?"

“Oh, you know, I don’t really do a lot of this sort of thing,” Yusuf says. “I don’t like running away from angry people with weapons. Mostly I like fiddling with things until they work really, really well, and when I fiddle with this really, really well, people come back transported by it. That’s rather nice.”

Probably what she wants, he realized belatedly, is his feelings on dreaming.

She's looking at him shrewdly. "I get that," she says. "That's what I want. I want to understand all of this well enough that I _can_ fiddle. From what Cobb was saying, not everyone knows or cares about the details of how it works, as long as it does."

“Well,” Yusuf says, “if you still want to fiddle at the end of this--assuming we survive, of course, and I ever see you again--I’ll show you exactly how my end of things works. If you like.”

She looks like she's not sure, for a second--like he could still be a creep--but then she smiles. "I'd like that. You seem cool. I want to learn. And I don't really want Cobb to teach me, no offense to him."

“Oh--I don’t care if you offend him,” says Yusuf. “I told you, this is half experimental opportunity for me, and half a favor to a friend. And Cobb I could leave by the side of the road, to be honest with you. For someone I’ve just met he’s caused me a lot of stress.”

"It sounds like you're not the only one," she says, but she doesn't push, for once. "Thanks for not putting me in that category."

“I’m sure you’ll have many opportunities to put yourself there, if you change your mind and want to make it a goal,” Yusuf says.

She laughs. "Let's just make it through this mission, okay? Then we'll see."

“Deal,” says Yusuf.


	41. 12.4 HERE IS THE MOVIE

The great thing about this job, Arthur thinks almost immediately, is that it’s obviously going to keep them busy. He doesn’t have a lot of time for feelings trying to ram his way through traffic with guns going off absolutely everywhere (Fischer’s brain is fortified, Cobb is going to lose his shit). 

When they come together again at the warehouse, it’s almost like being on an old job, except that Cobb doesn’t save his yelling for private. Arthur can’t even entirely blame him--it’s stupid, what he’s missed, stupid and dangerous. Not as stupid and dangerous as _trapping them in an aggressive dream with no way out,_ though, so that lets him off the hook a little. 

He notices, and doesn’t want to notice, that Eames doesn’t waste time being angry at him. Not about this. It doesn’t mean anything, just that he’s otherwise occupied, but the part of him that notices feels sick about it. 

~

Eames is furious with Cobb. It's one thing for him to risk himself, and that's no shock at all, but to risk all of them? Ariadne, who's brand new and so young? Yusuf, who never asked to be pulled into this?

It's not a surprise that he'll risk Arthur. When Cobb shouts at Arthur, Eames wants to break his neck.

But instead Eames does what he always does when a job goes bad: he settles in and decides to work through it. And Arthur may be acting cold and professional, but he's very good at what he does. Eames wonders if he can loosen him up a little.

~

For a moment, while Arthur is distracted shooting people who won’t go down, Eames is so close to him that Arthur can feel his heat and catch his soft, familiar scent. The dream really is incredible. For a moment, Arthur thinks Eames is almost flirting, and it’s so familiar and comes so easily out of Eames’s mouth that Arthur relaxes. Not about everything else, but about this. Maybe they can do this clusterfuck of a job without making things worse.

~

In the hotel, Eames is _on_. He feels like this could go well, despite Cobb's monumentally stupid choice to endanger all of them. Even the stupid tourist isn't getting underfoot too badly, despite trying to bleed out one level up. Arthur is, of course, perfect.

But it's just a job.

Until Arthur is about to put him under on the hotel floor. Eames looks up at him, dizzy. Arthur's smile is temporarily blinding, and he's _joking_ with Eames, and for a moment they're not in a dream, they're in Paris. Eames goes to sleep feeling that.

~

Arthur gets to work immediately, doesn’t let himself linger, doesn’t acknowledge the way even brief, professional contact with Eames’s sleeping body makes his own body buzz like carbonated water. He doesn’t let himself savor Eames’s expression, or the words on his own lips. He doesn’t let himself want to follow Eames in, to abandon everything and ask, _What does this mean?_ All of this is nothing, and Arthur knows so, and it’s Arthur’s job to make sure they come out of it right. To make sure all of them are safe. So he works on that.

~

On the third level, Eames doesn't have time for anything but business, and frustration that business is not going well. But he does spare a thought, when Cobb and Ariadne follow Fischer down, for how angry Arthur will if Eames lets them get lost down there.

But it's out of Eames's hands at that point, and all he can do it his best. Maybe if he does, he and Arthur will at least be able to joke again before going their separate ways.


	42. 10.2B REWRITE PLANE

Robert wakes up and the first thing he feels is surprise. He didn't expect to sleep on the plane. He tries and fails to remember if he took something. He realizes, foggily, that everyone is looking around. Have they landed already? He glances out the window. Not yet--but he feels the tilt of their descent. Everything he looks at drives his dreams--vivid and intense--further back from his conscious mind.

He looks around to see if the stewardess can bring him another water before he deplanes, and he has the disorienting sensation that he's missed something. Everyone else in the cabin is looking around at one another, except for the man who toasted his father. He's still sound asleep.

Robert is still looking backward, seeking out the stewardess, when something bizarre happens. One of the passengers, sitting in the center seat, is swiveling his head from one person to the next. He looks straight at the sleeping man--still sleeping--then at the man sitting to his own right, and then at the man to Robert’s left. The man to his left--slight, neat, and expressionless--glances towards the sleeping man, and his entire body tenses. 

The man in the middle seat says, very quickly, “Seatbelt sign’s on! Bathroom’s occupied! You can always use your call button.”

"Uh," Robert says. "I just want some water." Sometimes if he says things, someone will do them for him. The thin man is making him nervous. His energy is very unnerving, but if he's a terrorist, he waited an awfully long time.

“Yes,” says the fatter man who keep suggesting things. “Yes, that sounds like a lovely idea, I wonder where the stewardess is, probably helping all the many other people on this plane, don’t you think. The many, many people.” Which is wrong, because she’s the first class stewardess, and _this_ is first class.

From Robert’s other side, there’s a sharp intake of breath.

He thinks about sitting back in his seat and closing his eyes again, pretending the plane isn't landing and nobody is talking to him.

"Um," someone says. It's the only girl in the cabin. She looks like she just woke up, too. "Should--?" She doesn't say anything else.

Suddenly, the thin man is out of his seat.

"The seatbelt sign is on," the other man at the back of the cabin says emphatically. "You need to wait."

"What the fuck," Robert mutters, but without much investment. If this man ruins his day by blowing them all up, he's going to be upset, but not before then.

“He’s not waking up,” the thin man snarls, and then he’s across the cabin, right behind Robert, shaking the sleeping man by the lapels.

“Aaah---mmm, don’t!” says the fat man loudly. He fumbles with his seatbelt, and then he’s up, too, grabbing the thin man by the arms. The thin man shakes him off.

Fine, so maybe the thin man and the sleeping man were traveling together, and something's wrong with the sleeping man. It still seems like an extreme reaction. He's probably asleep. Robert does take a minute to press his call button, just in case.

“God _dammit_ , Dom,” the thin man says loudly. He starts shaking the sleeping man again, and it doesn’t do anything. He lets go and spins around. He points at the fat man and says, “Why the _hell_ isn’t he waking up? Do you know? Huh?”

"This isn't appropriate just now," the Englishman at the back says loudly. He keeps looking at Robert.

The thin man looks wildly at him. “What, so you’re not going to do anything? How does this look to you, does it look good? He’s in a goddamned coma! And you’re not going to do anything. You’re that goddamned petty, now?” His voice has risen to a shout.

"Stewardess!" Robert calls. But nobody is paying attention to him. Now the girl and the Englishman are on their feet.

"It's not that!" the Englishman says. "But if he's in a coma, you can't help him, and this _isn't the time.”_

“There is no other time,” the thin man snaps, and then he’s inside of Robert’s range of comfortable distance, right behind him, much too close.

"Hey," Robert says, maybe not loudly enough to be noticed. "What the hell's going on?" He turns to the other passenger, an older Asian man, but he, thankfully, doesn't seem to be getting involved.

"Please sit down," the girl says to the thin man, her voice almost too calm.

“No,” says the thin man, behind Robert’s seat. There’s a sound, a thumping rustling sound. Like a body being shaken, and then a splash. The thin man swears viciously, and then the glass that toasted Robert’s father smashes against the bulkhead.

"Jesus!" Robert yelps. He bangs on his call button again. "Someone make him stop."

He doesn't expect everyone to look at him, but they do.

"Arthur, _come on,_ " the girl says. "Later."

“No,” says the thin man--Arthur, and she knows him. “No, you said he was coming with you. You said he was just going back to--he’s supposed to be here, he can’t just stay in there, he can’t stay in there this long!” He spins around, like he’s looking for something else to break. He puts his hands in his hair and digs his fingers in so hard that Robert can imagine it hurts. 

"I know, but we can fix it, we just need to wait until we're off the plane," the girl says. She's crying now.

"Everyone in here needs to calm down," the Englishman says. "You're upsetting the other passengers."

"Yes," Robert mutters.

The thin man stops and drops his hands from his head, into fists. He turns to the Englishman.

“You,” he says, and even with that quiet word Robert can tell he’s about to explode, “you are a fucking _joke._ You’re happy about this. Don’t you dare lie to me, I know you are.”

“Arthur--” says the fat man.

"I'm not," the Englishman says. "But I'm also not going to discuss this here and jeopardize this for anyone who does still care." Robert wouldn't be talking to this Arthur like that. Can't they all see he's on the edge of losing his mind?

“I’m the one who doesn’t care, now?” Arthur says, voice rising. “ _Me_? Fuck you, just fuck yourself, because you didn’t have to come here, you could have left me alone and we wouldn’t have done this at all, but _you_ signed on and _you_ convinced him, and now he’s _dead, just like--”_ And Robert can’t hear the last word, and he doesn’t know if it’s because it’s unfamiliar or just because Arthur is screaming. 

The man in the seat next to Robert finally shifts, looking as if the entire world is a vast mystery.

"I pressed the call button," Robert tells him, as if that will help. Why isn't somebody coming?

"Please calm down," the girl keeps saying, in what is not a very calming voice.

Robert can't decide whether to stand up and try to move, or if that would draw attention to him. The Englishman is just looking at Arthur helplessly.

Screaming obviously works better than the call button, because at this point two passengers, their flight attendant, and a flight attendant Robert hasn’t seen before come through the door. The passengers are both reassuringly large. One of them barks, “What’s going on in here?”

The other one reaches out and touches Arthur’s shoulder. 

It all goes quickly. The instant he touches him, Arthur swings around to hit him, lightning fast. But the passengers are fast, too, and in half a second they have him on the ground with his arms wrenched up behind his back.

All of this is complicated somewhat by the Englishman getting in their way and saying loudly, "Be careful, be bloody careful, all right?"

The girl looks horrified. "It's okay, it's all going to be okay," she says, in the face of all the evidence.

The other flight attendant seems to be aware that this is the first class cabin, because he says ludicrously, “Sir, sir, what can we do to help you?” As if Arthur is just lodging a minor complaint instead of tearing up the plane. Surely they could have hired someone with a little more judgment than that. 

The passengers, thankfully, aren’t worried about it—and who knows, depending on who Arthur is, maybe they’ll pay for it later—but he makes an angry noise and struggles to get up, and the bigger passenger (with biceps like knots in an oak tree) shakes him and pins him flat.

Everyone starts yelling things, including the fatter man from the middle seat, who yells, “There is a medical emergency, can everyone let me bloody through?”

For some reason, the idea that this man is a possibly doctor is incredibly soothing, although the main issue, as far as Robert's concerned, isn't one a doctor can solve.

"You're hurting him," the girl says to the men restraining Arthur, angrily and firmly. They wouldn't be hurting him if he wasn't trying to fight back so hard.

The man who might be a doctor says, “Wait, wait, wait, everyone please stop, won’t you? Stop!” There’s a pause in the action, with Arthur panting into it. 

The doctor says, “Now, the man you’re grappling with is upset because his friend won’t wake up, you see? That’s all. And I need to go help his friend, and I need everyone else to stop fighting. He’s not going to do anything bad if you let him go. Arthur?”

Arthur nods. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

The men holding onto him don’t look entirely convinced. 

“He was screaming threats,” says the smaller one. “On an airplane.”

"We were having a row." Robert had almost forgotten about the Englishman. He sounds breathless. "That's all." Do they all know each other except Robert and the Asian man in the vest?

“Listen, you can watch him if you want,” says the doctor. “But please just let him up and let me go look at his friend.”

The passengers exchange a glance. “All right,” says the bigger one, and backs off.

The Englishman looks at Arthur like he's not sure whether to offer him a hand or not. Robert doesn't blame him for being wary.

"Hey," the girl says. "Arthur?"

The doctor steps past them all and starts doing things to the sleeping man which Robert assumes are actually medically relevant and nothing more mysterious or fucked up. 

Arthur sits up, slings one elbow over his bent knee, and runs a hand across his mouth. He’s staring at the sleeping man, eyes bright but tearless.

The Englishman returns to his seat abruptly. The girl does not.

"We're _landing_ ," Robert says, but quietly. He just wanted this trip to be smooth, and it's rapidly becoming a nightmare.

The girl darts a look--apologetic?--at him, then goes back to staring at Arthur.

“Sir,” says the first class flight attendant, “you have to return to your seat. Everyone has to return to their seat. Um, except for him.” She waves at the doctor. 

Arthur looks up at her and nods. He gets to his feet and retreats to his seat. He shakes his head when he gets there, and says, “It’s okay,” to the girl.

"It is," she says. She wipes her eyes vigorously. "You're okay."

Robert, finally convinced that he's not going to get hit by anyone, closes his eyes again. He doesn't want to deal with any of this. He just wants the plane to land so he can go back to his exhausting new life.

Next to him, a new voice speaks softly in words he can’t hear. After a minute he hears his neighbor get up and go to where the doctor and crew are huddled around the sleeping man, spread out on the ground. 

“Can I help?” he says. Robert doesn’t catch what happens after that.


	43. 3.11 EAMES AND ARIADNE AFTER THE PLANE GOES DOWN

The job was a success. Time will tell the actual inception succeeded, but Eames is pretty confident. And they all made it out, which is a miracle.

Well. Almost all of them. Cobb is an acceptable loss in Eames's book, and it's no shock he didn't walk away. What it's doing to Arthur isn't acceptable on any level. But it isn't Eames's choice, and Arthur is too furious with him for him to do anything to help. Maybe it's because of this that he invites Ariadne to get drinks with him before moving on to whatever her next destination is.

She accepts fervently, and meets him at a bar downtown. It’s all dark wood and leather and steep prices. It’s busy, too, and everyone there is dressed to the nines. Or at least to the eights. Ariadne apparently knows how to Google, because she shows up in a swishy dress and heels and blends in instantly. 

“I packed for everything,” she says loudly when she catches Eames looking at her. She takes a seat next to him, perching around a tiny circular table in the corner near the bar.

Eames has been trying to decide if he's allowed to find her cute. He's settled on being wildly jealous of her. "Let's get politely drunk and debrief," he says. He can't stop thinking about Arthur's face on the plane.

“Please,” Ariadne says seriously. “What do you want? I’ll buy. I mean, we’re both rich now.”

"This might even last me more than a few months," Eames says honestly. "But beer's fine." He doesn't know her _that_ well yet, even if he does admire her skill and levelheadedness.

She says, “I’ll depend on the bartender. Hang on.”

She comes back a few minutes later with drinks in hand. 

“Oh, my god, I thought I’d never come back,” she says. “Here, drink something, I want to get to the tipsy part.” Whatever she has contains ice and the color pink and smells sweet and alcoholic from across the table.

Eames feels himself relax significantly. What a nice girl. He takes two big gulps of his beer and says, "Are you all right?"

It’s commendable that she takes a sip of her poisonous drink and thinks before she answers. “I think I’m all right,” she says. “I mean, that was all pretty horrifying, right? Everything at the end?” She puts her glass down and says, “Before you say anything else, Eames, can you just tell me--is it really not my fault Cobb is stuck in there? I told him to stay for Saito.”

"No," Eames says without hesitation. "Look, you may have got in Cobb's head, but you don't know him as well as I do. Believe me, everything that happened to him is a path he set himself on." He checks himself to see if he's letting his personal feelings about Cobb get in the way, but it really doesn't matter at this point. He's not wrong.

Ariadne nods slowly, as if she’d like to believe it but isn’t sure she should.

“Then I think I’m all right,” she says. “Are you?”

Eames would usually lie. But they've been through something so intense together, and besides, he thinks she'd catch him at it. "After that scene on the plane?" he says, raising his eyebrows. "Not a bit."

Ariadne takes another drink and another moment to absorb that.

“No,” she agrees. “That was kind of shit. Arthur, he’s…”

"He's lost a lot in a very short span of time," Eames says. As a summary, it doesn't really do the situation justice.

“I was going to say, he’s important to you,” Ariadne tells him. “But that’s good to keep in mind.”

Eams winces. Well, thank god. Thank god it came off that way. They were just finding their rhythm again, almost, when the job ended and everything went south. Before that, it was fairly bleak. "He's the most important," he says, with no excuse. He's not even finished with his beer yet.

Ariadne, normal human being that she is, looks uncomfortable. “He thinks you hate him, you know. He told me so.”

"Jesus," Eames mutters. He told her that? He said words about his feelings to someone he barely knows? "He's wrong," Eames says. "But he did dump me unceremoniously, so I'd be well within my rights."

“Oh,” Ariadne says. She says it like she’s leaving a lot unsaid. She peers into her glass.

"Sorry," Eames feels compelled to say. "I don't mean to dump all this on you. I'm just worried about him. I expect you are, too, unless you're just itching to get clear of the whole thing." He knows that's bullshit. She wouldn't be here with him if that were true.

“Yeah,” Ariadne says. “I like Arthur. I liked working with him. Do you think--he wouldn’t want to hear from me, right? I mean, he barely knows me. But is he going to talk to you?”

"No," Eames says. "He's not going to talk to anyone. That's what he does." He makes himself say it: "I think you should call him if you want." He has a sudden vision of Arthur and Ariadne, beautiful in very similar ways, getting together and never needing to speak to him again.

“You’ll have to give me his number, then,” Ariadne says. She swirls her drink. “Does he get that angry a lot? Because if he does, maybe I don’t want to call him.”

"That was a first," Eames says slowly. "He's not an angry person. He's certainly not a violent person." Not unless the job calls for it, of course.

Ariadne nods. “I guess I didn’t realize how close Arthur is to Cobb.” Her shoulders twitch with discomfort.

But this part is officially Arthur's business. Much as Eames hates it, much as he needs someone to talk to about it, that person isn't Ariadne. "They have a long history," he says. "He's been with the Cobbs for years." That can mean whatever Ariadne chooses. "Now he's lost both of them." _All of them_ , including the kids. 

Ariadne scratches an ear, thoughtful. “If you give me his number, I’ll give him a call,” she says. “Maybe he’ll even pick up. I really like him, actually!”

'Yeah," Eames says shortly. He scribbles Arthur's number on a napkin and makes himself take a deep breath. "I'm glad," he says. "He needs friends." He realizes he's quietly making the case to himself that he should just walk away from Arthur completely. It's not especially compelling.

“Thanks,” Ariadne says, sticking the napkin in her purse. “What about you, though? No offense, Eames, but you look completely worn out.”

"After all that sleeping, too," he says mildly. "But yeah, it wasn't a good scene, was it? Listen, why don't you take my number, too. You're good at this. Honestly. And it's not always like that."

A brightness slips into Ariadne’s eyes. “I could see what it’s like,” she says. “I love it. I want to do more, without--you know, without the end part.”

"It's usually just the good bits," Eames says. "If you work with the right people. Anyway, if you're looking for work, leads, or just some practice with someone who knows his stuff, you'll have my number."

“Thanks,” Ariadne says. “I mean it. I really liked working with you. Also, I like you.” She gulps down the end of her drink. “I want another. You?”

"God, yes," Eames says, surprising himself.

Ariadne grins, looking pleased with both of them. “If I get you drunk,” she says, “maybe you’ll tell me about some of your weirdest forgeries. That’s the plan, anyway.”

"Then I hope you get me drunk," he says. He thinks this whole thing might be an awful mistake, but he can't help it. He's upset and she's charming and friendly.

“I think I can do it,” Ariadne says with a serene smile. She gets to her feet. “Back in just a minute,” she says, and heads to the bar to fulfill her promise.


	44. 3.8 WE SHOULD WRITE ARTHUR HOOKING UP WITH ARIADNE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sex!

Two months after the Fischer job, Ariadne is in Toronto, doing research. The first thing she does, before she even opens her blinds, is decide to call Arthur. She does call him fifteen minutes later, lying flat on her hotel bed with something digging into her back. This is a terrible hotel. She's going to leave a Yelp review.

Arthur picks up and says her name. He sounds surprised and pleased--surprised because she doesn’t usually call him, and pleased because they’re actually pretty good friends now, with all the back and forth.

"Hey," Ariadne says, grinning at the ceiling. "Guess what. I'm in Toronto. Where are you?" Last she knew, Arthur was pretty close, but he moves a lot.

“Recently? Boston. Today? Detroit,” Arthur says. “Do you need me for something?”

"Sort of," Ariadne says. "I had some ideas to run by you, but I'm actually here for the other thing. You know. Real-world architecture. But I was hoping we could hang out." She fights to keep it from coming out like a question.

There’s a pause, and then Arthur says, “I’m pretty much done here. I was going to fly back tonight anyway, can you wait a few hours? I need a car, and you can’t predict the border crossing.”

"I can wait," Ariadne says. "I'm not that desperate for you." Not an ideal choice of words at all. She grabs her pillow and puts it over her face. Do she and Arthur have the kind of relationship where she can make those jokes? Who knows!

“All right, well, I’ll be there,” Arthur says. “Where are you staying?”

"The Montecassino Place Suites Hotel on Chesswood Drive," Ariadne says. "It's terrible. Come anyway."

Arthur laughs. “Give me a few hours,” he says again, and hangs up.

~

By the time Arthur gets there, Ariadne has showered, napped, and done a little work. She's already decided that she hates Toronto, which is probably unfair. She's excited to see Arthur, though. They've only called and emailed since the Fischer job, and she wants to see his face again. She hopes he's all right. He didn't seem all right, last time they saw each other in person.

They’re friends now because he called to apologize, after the not seeming all right, and turned out to be just as interesting and experienced as he’d seemed on the job. And nice. Arthur’s nice.

He calls her from the lobby and, when she comes to get him, says, “Oh, there. You’re in one piece,” and smiles all over his face.

" _Me?_ " she demands, but she hugs him tightly so he doesn't have to say anything. His smile practically knocks the breath out of her. She'd been afraid he'd look awful. "Come on," she says. "This hotel isn't so bad when you get used to it. Unless you have the energy for going out?"

“I can do anything you want me to do,” Arthur says.

"Then come sit on my lumpy bed and tell me what you've been up to," she says. She grabs his hand, only feeling weird about it for a second, and tugs him upstairs.

Arthur leaves his shoes by her door and says, “You’re right, it’s really not much.” He sits on her bed crosslegged and adds, “Really not much. Couldn’t they have put you up somewhere a little nicer?”

"Eh, grad school," Ariadne says, shrugging. "It's okay. I'm doing double-duty, checking out some ideas for dream architecture while I work on my thesis." Arthur is so _smiley_. Did she forget that, or has he changed?

“Going well?” Arthur says, cautiously, she thinks.

"All right." Ariadne hasn't decided yet if she gets to sit on the bed too, so she's still standing. She thinks it feels more awkward than it looks, thankfully. "I'm kind of looking forward to being done, so I can spend more time asleep."

“Glad you’re taking to the dream stuff,” Arthur says.

"I love it," Ariadne says fervently. "Arthur, it's amazing. Why would anyone ever do anything else with their life, if they could do that?" She sits down next to him on the bed.

“Yeah?” he says encouragingly. 

"Yeah." She smiles at him. "That job changed my life." She feels like a jerk saying it, considering. "For the better, which I realize might put me in the minority."

Arthur shakes his head slightly. “Not your fault,” he says. “You can feel good about it, even though it--went like that. I’m not going to hold it against you.”

Of course he isn't. He's ideal. "If I wanted to start doing jobs, you know, for money…" Ariadne trails off, not sure how to ask. "Is it gauche to ask if you have any contacts? I just don't know anyone." She's been toying with the idea of calling Eames or Yusuf, but they're somehow a lot more intimidating than Arthur.

Arthur scratches his arm and frowns thoughtfully. “Well, yeah, I can probably help with that. You’ll want to be careful, though. People aren’t usually doing nice things with this stuff. You’ll want to decide what you’re up for, if you actually want to go out and work.”

"I know," Ariadne says. "Believe me, my introduction to all this was fairly eye-opening." But she doesn't want to be a criminal. "I just don't know where to start, I guess." She smiles at him. "Maybe you're my contact."

“I guess I am,” Arthur says. “You know, I’ll help you if that’s what you want.”

"I'll let you know," Ariadne says. She hopes she doesn't sound incredibly naive. "I'm afraid it might be limiting, trying to do it as--you know, paying work. But I'm interested. I think there's so much more to be done with it." She smiles at him. "You look really good, Arthur."

“Well, thanks,” he says, giving her a curious look.

"I was afraid you wouldn't," she says.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he says. 

_About that_ diminishes the whole situation. If Saito hadn’t exerted his ownership of the plane, Ariadne isn’t sure what would have happened to Arthur. He’d been furious and violent and screaming at them, and Cobb had just laid there, and it was awful. When they landed Arthur was a seething volcano, completely checked out and boiling over. She’d really been surprised to get that apology.

"Don't be sorry," she says. "I'm just glad you're doing okay. And I'm glad you came to see me! Because--I hope it was clear from the phone calls and everything, but I want to keep hanging out." She wishes she'd picked a nicer hotel. And maybe put her hair up. Arthur looks so put together. Oh well, at least she's put together on the inside.

“Ariadne,” Arthur says, smiling mildly, “let me know if I’ve got this wrong. Are you flirting?”

"Yeah," she says. Now she's blushing. Great. He's just so cool. Cooler than her, which she thought was impossible. "Is that okay?"

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I mean, _yeah.”_

"Good," Ariadne says briskly. "So it's okay if I kiss you?" She doesn't wait for an answer. He'll let her know if it's not okay. She just leans over and kisses him on the mouth, firmly but softly.

Arthur lets it go on, and slowly slides a hand down her ribs to her waist. It’s a nicer kiss than the only other one they’ve shared. Not that she thinks he didn’t enjoy the last time, but there’s more attention in it this time. 

Ariadne is the one to break the kiss, eventually. She's a little breathless. "Huh," she says, swallowing. "Well. You're still good at that." She probably doesn't need to be talking so much, but she feels giddy.

“Thanks,” says Arthur with a cheeky smile. “Come here, won’t you?” He uncrosses his legs and moves closer so he can sweep her into another kiss, this one deeper and longer, her leaning back with his fingers caught up in her hair. When he pulls back, he doesn’t quite make room for her to sit upright.

“You are a really beautiful girl,” he says, looking at her so seriously that it doesn’t sound nearly as stupid as it should.

"Woman," Ariadne mutters. "Now keep doing what you were doing, please." She grabs him by the collar and kisses him, confident now that they have a direction they're moving in.

Arthur makes a noise, small and satisfied, into her mouth. His hand shifts down to the small of her back, and in one very definitely practiced movement, he’s got her laid out flat, his arm strong around her. His fingertips just barely brush the skin above her waistband. He stops kissing her to say, “Comfortable down there?”

"Very," Ariadne says. The spring or whatever it is is digging into her back again, but she doesn't care. She's shivering a little, and she damn well hopes she can figure out how to do this to him. She leans up and bites his bottom lip, then sucks on it very gently. He's so warm.

Arthur’s eyes fall shut, and he tilts towards her with a sigh.

Ariadne hooks a leg over the back of Arthur's knee, pinning him against her. It's been so long since she's done this with a boy. "I'm going to mess you up," she says conversationally. Arthur shivers--she feels it with her whole body. He gives a short little nod before he opens his eyes.

"Do you need a safe word?" Ariadne asks. If he thinks it's lame, she's still going to make him say so.

“Uh,” he says, and looks both startled and a little trapped. 

"It's okay," Ariadne says. "How about if you don't like something, you just let me know?" She's fine with that, and it won't interrupt her flow, but some people are picky.

“Sure,” Arthur says, compellingly. Then he furrows his brows. “All right?”

Okay, Ariadne thinks, he's being weird. But he's weird and agreeing to it, so that's fine. "Okay, you can get back to kissing me, mister." She was going to say _mister lastname_ , but she doesn't know what it is.

Arthur huffs a little laugh at the same time he swoops for her, and a puff of air lands warm against her skin just before his lips touch hers. He gets down on his elbows, his hands running through her hair, and kisses her like it’s a good thing, but not the only thing. Like there’s something exciting still to get to.

"Mm, God," she breathes. This is so much nicer than she thought it would be from being in the same room with him before. She had flashes of this Arthur, but never enough to think he'd really be like this up close. She pulls his shirt out of his pants and gets her hands under it, running her nails down his back.

He shivers again, hard enough that he bites her lip. 

She arches her back and presses against him. He has too many buttons. She undoes them with quick, frantic precision while kissing and kissing him. Arthur ducks his head and breathes against her neck. His lips barely brush against her skin, but his hot breath hits her in shuddering bursts. He shrugs out of his shirt without moving away, and slides a hand up her arm.

Ariadne feels like she could so easily slip under and let him take charge, but she doesn't want that. She wants to show him what she can do. She wriggles out of her own shirt and grabs Arthur, rolling him over so he lands flat on his back. It's easier than it looks. He's good at moving where she nudges him.

“Phew,” Arthur says, and smiles at her. 

"Hey, down there," she says. She decides she's feeling brave, and why fuck around? "Take your pants off," she says.

Arthur’s smile tilts up, just slightly--gets sweeter, she thinks. He writhes his way out of his pants and stops with his thumb hooked on the waistband of his boxer briefs, watching her for a cue.

"Those too," she says cheerfully. "It's a lot harder to ride you if you aren't naked." _Sex is so weird_ , she thinks. _Weird and dumb and great._ She slips off her pants and underwear, never looking away from Arthur. He makes her feel like she's part of an incredibly competent, cool team.

They end up naked at the same time, Arthur leaning back on his hands and looking her up and down. His expression is equal parts hungry and polite. 

Ariadne grins at him. "Down," she says. She pushes him down flat on his back, gently but firmly. His skin feels so soft under her palm. She straddles his stomach, knees on either side of his ribs, and bends to kiss his chest. "You can touch me," she says quietly, between kisses.

Arthur gives a small groan and shuts his eyes for a moment.

“I’d love to do that,” he murmurs. 

His hands run up the insides of her thighs, over her ribs, between her breasts.

“You are the prettiest person I know, I think,” he says.

"You think," Ariadne says, but her voice wobbles. He's so _nice_. And his hands feel so good. She settles against his stomach and leans down to kiss him, as a reward for being so nice. Her hands find his hair and she tugs a little before digging her fingers into his scalp. "I'm really," she says breathlessly into his mouth, "I mean, I am very wet."

Arthur gives a full-body shiver. “I know,” he says. 

She's glad it's dim in here. She's blushing so hard. She grabs his wrists and guides his hands behind his back, pinning them under him. "Now we're fucking," she says firmly. "Okay?"

“I’m not wearing a condom,” he reminds her, rather quickly.

"Don't worry," Ariadne says, "I didn't forget." Because she likes Arthur, but no way are they skipping that step. She slips off the bed and digs one out of her bag. She hopes Arthur isn't the type of guy to make a joke about it. She forgets all about that, though, in the overwhelming attractiveness of putting the condom on him while his hands are trapped.

It’s good enough that it works for her, but it works for him, as well. His breathing goes uneven and his face turns pink, and, well, she can feel the difference in her hands. 

“Jesus, Ariadne, do something fast,” he says.

"Mm hm," she agrees. She slides a finger between her legs. Okay. She straddles him again and eases him inside her carefully. It's been a while. "You feel great," she murmurs. Once she's comfortable, she gets her hands in his hair again, using it as leverage while she fucks herself on his cock.

Head forced back, arms pinned under him, Arthur looks exactly how Ariadne wants him. He’s matching her with short, frustrated thrusts, but he can’t move as much as he wants to, and it’s not long before he’s letting out pained noises that punctuate every slam of his hot, hard cock into her body.

"Don't worry," she pants, "I'm gonna get you there." It feels so good to have him inside her but to feel totally in control. Every moment should be like this. "Look at me," she commands. She feels silly for a second and tells herself not to. She looks hot. She is hot. She gets to feel great about that. Arthur meets her eyes, and she can see how much he’s struggling to focus.

“You,” he says, and then swears (excitingly) as she moves just right. “First t-take--care of you.”

"God, you're sweet," she says with feeling. She squeezes her legs against his hips and keeps riding him, sliding her fingers down to touch herself. Keeping her other hand in his hair, she bears down, rocking against him.

Arthur watches her fingers move, hungry-eyed for a few seconds until his eyes squeeze shut, and he twists underneath her. Her whole body tenses.

“Christ,” he says unevenly. “Jesus, Ariadne, y-you’re killing me, I can _feel_ you. ”

"Good," she says a little hysterically. She's so close. "Good, good, oh god, nn--" She shuts up and snaps her hips and comes, careful, somewhere in there, not to pull his hair too hard.

She gets her breath back fast and puts both hands flat on Arthur's chest. "Tell me what you need," she says firmly.

Arthur groans, but it turns into this little hiccup that mirrors her hysteria. She’s still on his cock and he looks like he’s about to burst into flames. 

“Get off and let me touch you,” he says, “please. _Shit.”_

Ariadne has zero complaints. She eases off him and helps gently tug his hands out from under him. "Touch me," she says.

Arthur wraps his arms around her so they’re pressed front to front, legs tangled together. His hands run everywhere, down her back, over her butt and her thighs and gently up her stomach. He nuzzles her neck, not even kissing. He runs a hand down her arm, stops at her hand, says, “You can, or I can, I don’t care, it’s all right.” He says it into her neck.

"Keep going," she says, "I've got you." She reaches down and touches him, wrapping her hand around his cock and shivering as his fingers graze her skin.

Arthur does, holding her close, gasping into her collarbone and running his hands over her breasts, her ribs, her shoulderblades. His touch gets tighter and more staccato, until finally his hands stop moving and he’s just holding onto her arms, half-sobbing and jerking frantically under her touch.

“Please, please, please,” he says under his breath, choking on air.

"I want you to come," she says, because it feels right, and maybe he needs it. "Go on."

Arthur makes a little pleading noise, and then comes, rigid and shaking and almost silent. He lets out a big whoosh of air when he’s done, and rolls to his side, and says, “Christ.”

Ariadne is acutely aware of how naked she is, but she doesn't care enough to do anything about it. "It's definitely good we did that," she says.

“Definitely,” says Arthur. A pause, and then: “Do you want to get pizza or something?”

"Dear god," Ariadne says, " _please_."


	45. 4.3 MORE ARIADNE AND ARTHUR

Not long after Ariadne sleeps with Arthur in her bad hotel room, she's on her way back home. She got a lot of work done and very little sightseeing, and she's ready to be back in Paris. It's a coincidence, mostly, that she has a long, late layover in Boston. There were options, of course, but this flight lined up better with plans she already had.

She feels so silly about it that she almost doesn't call Arthur. But she keeps remembering how _well_ everything went, and she has to. She's going to invite him out to dinner, but what ends up coming out of her mouth is, "I'll bet your apartment's really cool."

 

He doesn't seem to object, and she can just picture his warm smile over the phone. So she winds up at his place, ringing his buzzer at eleven o'clock at night.

He comes downstairs to let her in and says, “Shut the door quick, I have a cat, and she’s sneaky.”

"A cat!" Ariadne can't imagine Arthur with pets. She follows him upstairs and into his apartment, wondering what he does with the cat when he's abroad. "Your place is nice," she says reflexively, but it is. A little bare, but nice. That, she did expect.

“Thanks,” he says. He shuts the door behind her, and swoops down to scoop up the promised cat before Ariadne even notices it making a beeline for the door. “Say hi to Ariadne,” Arthur tells it.

"I definitely never would have pegged you for an animal person," she says, eyeing the cat. To be fair, she's not.

“I like animals,” Arthur says with a small smile. He puts the cat down. “That’s Tiramisu, by the way. If you need to tell her to get off you or anything.”

Ariadne laughs and puts her bag down on the floor. "That's really cute. What do you do with her when you have to travel?" She knows he doesn't leave her with friends. There's no way he's social enough to have people to call on.

“Board her, mostly,” he says. “We’re mostly--I’m mostly places that have somewhere nice she can stay.”

Ariadne is really glad she came. "This place is pretty big for just you and the cat," she says.

Arthur laughs apologetically. “Yeah, probably. Do you want something to drink? It’s late, I have drinks and drinks.”

"I could use a glass of wine, if you have it," Ariadne says. She doesn't feel like she's intruding. She feels like she's filling space that's begging to be filled.

When they have their wine and they’re sitting at each end of the couch, Arthur says, “So you’re going back to Paris.”

"Yeah," Ariadne says, biting her lip. "I have to finish up my degree. I honestly can't wait to be done, at this point. I think I've gotten everything I can out of school. I'm ready for the practical parts." When she started her degree, she was thinking of becoming a teacher. She's not anymore.

“Practical parts of what?” Arthur nudges. “I thought you were studying to build things in the waking world.”

"I'm studying architecture," Ariadne says firmly. "And I get to decide what being an architect means."

“I can’t imagine anyone daring to contradict you,” Arthur says. It’s nice that he can say these things and not sound either condescending or like he’s calling Ariadne a bitch.

"You don't think it's naive, right?" she asks, sipping her wine. It's a really good wine, as she knew it would be. "To want to get into this field?"

“I think you’re an idealist,” Arthur says. “I don’t think you’re stupid. What do you want to do, exactly?”

"Build," Ariadne says. "I want to design and build. I was thinking of doing it as a contractor. Pretty standard stuff. And when I make enough money, I can spend more of my own time experimenting."

Arthur laughs. “Yeah, completely naive, that’s you. No plan at all.”

"I don't know how much market there is in Paris," Ariadne says carefully. God, Arthur is soothing. She wonders if he knows how much.

“There is,” Arthur says, nodding encouragingly. “No, there is, it’s a great place to work from, we--I did. For awhile. Plenty of work, if you don’t mind a little travel now and then.”

"What about you?" She looks around the apartment. "You look like you're staying here for a while." She wonders what's in Boston. He hasn't mentioned family, but maybe he wouldn't.

“I wasn’t planning to, but I like it. So I might,” he says. “No reason not to keep a home base somewhere.”

Every ounce of her wants to pry until she finds out more about his five-year plan, but she _knows_ she's not supposed to do things like that. "Boston is nice," she says. She knows it sounds forced. She can't help that she sucks at small talk.

“It’ll do,” Arthur says. “Listen, I’m really glad you’ve been keeping in touch. I mean it, about wanting to help you out if I can.”

"I know," Ariadne says. "I can't say I'm totally clear on why. I mean, apart from the fact that I'm likeable." She isn't Eames, who is always obsessively pulling people apart, but she does find it a little annoying that Arthur is so inscrutable. Less inscrutable since their last meeting.

“Well, that helps,” Arthur says. “I mean it, though. I like you. I don’t want anyone I like to be dropped into this alone and without anyone to help out. Just because you’re clever and hard to rattle doesn’t mean it won’t kill you if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Ariadne shivers. "I know. That's why I called you before. I have a lot of experience building, but not with anything else in this world."

“You’ll pick up what you need to,” Arthur says. “And I have a feeling you’ll avoid what you want to.”

"You have a lot of faith in me." She feels warm, partly from the wine, and partly because he's so kind. She hopes there's someone in Boston who's taking care of him, but she thinks there's probably not.

“Sorry,” Arthur says. “I don’t mean to push.”

"No." She puts her wine down. "You weren't. You're being nice. Why are you so nice?"

“I’m not doing anything,” Arthur says.

"You're just making it hard to leave," Ariadne says. She realizes when she says it that it maybe sounds desperate, or romantic. She just doesn't like the idea of leaving him to fend for himself.

“You’ve got places to be, though,” Arthur says, a little questioningly. “School?”

"I know," she says. "I'm just bored, and I like you. And I want to make sure you're okay."

Arthur takes a moment before he answers that. “I can see why you’d think I’m not,” he says. “You didn’t meet me at my best time. I’m all right, though. Been through things before.”

She wants to say that doesn't necessarily make him better at coping with them, but one thing she learned from Cobb is that you can't get in people's faces about their personal lives. It won't be helpful. "Well. You have my number," she says instead.

“When’s your flight?” Arthur asks. “I’m not kicking you out, I just wondered how long you have.”

Ariadne makes a face. "I have about six more hours."

“If you want to crash for a couple hours,” Arthur says. He doesn’t, she can’t help noticing, suggest that they sleep together.

"I'm not really tired," she says. "Travel keeps me up. I won't be able to relax till I'm home." She finishes her glass of wine and sets it aside.

The cat jumps up between them and Arthur runs his hand down her, from her nose to the tip of her tail. 

“Then just let me know if you want to switch to coffee,” he says. “And stay as long as you want. I didn’t have any plans tonight until you called.”

"Good," Ariadne says, although actually, that's kind of sad. But maybe he likes sitting home alone with the cat. "I'll take you up on that coffee."

“Sounds good,” Arthur agrees. It’s eleven thirty at night and he’s not catching a plane, which makes it sound not at all good to her. “Come on, kitchen.”

Ariadne pads after him, impressed at how comfortable she feels here. She doesn't spend a lot of time in strange men's apartments, but somewhere along the line, Arthur has stopped being strange and started being a friend. "I hope you have espresso," she says, stepping over the cat.

“You’re unforgiving, Ariadne,” Arthur says. “An itinerant criminal--a bachelor, also--stays in one place for a few weeks and already he’s supposed to have an espresso machine?” 

"I would," she says. She thought about buying one for her shitty hotel. "Are you planning on staying here a while?" Just in case she needs to track him down again.

He thinks about that, which gives her part of an answer by itself. 

“For now,” he says. “Awhile. If you want, I’ll tell you when I leave.”

"Oh," she says, touched. "Yeah, I'd like that. Who else is going to give up his seedy contacts?" _Maybe Eames_ , she thinks.

Arthur laughs. “So do you want coffee that’s not espresso, or do I need to find you a café?”

"Coffee's fine," Ariadne says sadly. She looks around the kitchen. It's not as small as she expected. Arthur knows what to spend a little extra for. That's one thing they have in common. "But if you come to Paris," she says, "I'll make you espresso."

“Well, I just boil mine over the stove like in war times,” Arthur says. “So it’ll probably be wasted on me.” He points at the next worst thing, a regular old automatic drip coffee maker. “Just don’t think less of me,” he says. “I borrowed it from the downstairs neighbors.”

"It's fine," Ariadne says, but what she's thinking is, _You're settling in._ She squeezes his arm when she reaches past him from a mug from the drying rack.

Arthur chats with her while he makes the coffee happen. He doesn't feel at all intimidating anymore. Maybe the further away from a job (or _that_ job) they get, the more normal he becomes. And he’s lonely. 

“But Tira hates moving, so she’s been happy with me for weeks,” Arthur finishes. “Coffee’s ready, I think.”

Ariadne can't decide if the small talk is charming or heartbreaking. She does know that she doesn't want to go. "She keeps you company, right?" she asks, indicating the cat, who is now sitting on the counter.

“Oh, yeah, she’s a pal,” says Arthur. He smiles at the cat and the cat squeezes her eyes shut, ears slightly back.

"And if you get lonely, you'll give someone a call?" Ariadne asks. "Not me, necessarily, but--well, maybe me. Or Eames." Maybe she shouldn't have said that. Arthur gets very quiet. He takes a second mug out of the drainer and fills it with coffee. He opens the fridge and hands a carton of half and half to Ariadne. She can almost see the shapes of the unkind things he’s not saying to her. He must know she can. He’s not even trying to smooth it over.

"Sorry," she says. "Arthur, I'm sorry. Can we rewind?" She's not _that_ sorry, not for prying. Just for making him sad.

“I think you’re a little bit of a bully,” Arthur says.

"Would you believe I've been told that before?" Ariadne says, not ruefully enough. "I just think I know what's best for everyone, is that so wrong?"

“ _You’re_ wrong,” Arthur says. “He doesn’t want me to call him. I know it seemed like we were getting along in the middle, but it’s just habit, okay? Habitually, we get along. But that’s not how it is anymore, and I--” He stops himself, breathes for a few seconds. “He asked me to leave him alone, and nothing that happened on that job makes me think he’s changed his mind.”

Ariadne wishes she'd been nosy enough to find out if that was true. "Call me, then," she says. "Even if you have to make up a work reason."

“Well, funny thing,” Arthur says. “I’d be happy to call you.”

"Oh," Ariadne says, pleased. She can feel herself turning pink. And the coffee isn't even that bad. She considers, for a second, asking him on a date, but she thinks better of it. She's not sure exactly where they are, but maybe not there.

“Drink up,” Arthur says. “You want to be fortified before you go back to the airport.”

"Fortify me with a kiss, too," she says firmly.

“Oh, _well,”_ Arthur says. He puts a gentle hand under her jaw and kisses her, slowly and softly. When he’s done she’s both frustrated and slightly breathless.

"Oof," she says. "Definitely helps." She sips her coffee until she's less pink. "I'm definitely going to miss that. Not that I don't have people to kiss me in Paris."

“No, I wouldn’t think,” Arthur says. “I mean, Paris.” He trips over the last word in an unexpected way--an adorable little creak in his voice.

"You okay?" Ariadne asks, but lightly.

“You know my weak spot,” Arthur says, smiling crookedly. “You just don’t always know when you’re hitting it. Don’t worry, Ariadne.”

"I always worry," she says, squeezing his arm. "That's the downside to being my friend. I'll constantly try to fix your life."

“I’ll brace myself,” Arthur says.

Ariadne is always impressed at how he takes everything in stride. "I wish I could take you with me to Paris," she says.

“Ah,” Arthur says. “Look at that. Trying to fix me already. I have a better idea: tell me what you’re going to do the second your life isn’t eaten up by school work.”

"Date," Ariadne says promptly. "And eat. And sleep. And then after a week of that, I'll get bored and start working."

“I’m surprised you’re even planning to take a breath,” Arthur says. “Granted I’ve only known you for a little while, but I know a workaholic when I meet one.”

"I guess that's why we get along," she says. "But you have to make time for the other stuff, right? Or you go crazy." It's a half-hearted attempt to get him to kiss her again, but it comes out sounding like she's fixing him again. Maybe that's okay. Even with the coffee, she's dizzy with exhaustion.

“You probably have a point,” Arthur says. “You don’t have any recommendations for how to do that, though, do you?”

"Well," Ariadne says, "I used to think the only way would be to add another dozen or so hours to the day. But that's possible, isn't it? That's what dream-sharing does. So I guess we can be workaholics and have fun."

“Ah,” Arthur says. “So with that healthy solution in mind, the only problem left is becoming someone who knows what fun is.”

"I know what fun is," Ariadne says scathingly. "Fun is coffee. And cafes. And expensive laptops. And cute people." She gives up and leans in to kiss him.

“Maybe _you_ do,” Arthur breathes, and lets her catch him. As soon as their lips touch his eyes fall shut. One hand just barely brushes against her waist.

She closes her eyes, too, and after a second she has to pull away. "That is _so_ nice," she says. "Too nice. I'm going to insult you by falling asleep."

“Are you?” Arthur says, surprised. “I mean, you can. But don’t you think I can keep you up?”

Ariadne grins. "Oh. I see. Well, I dare you."

Arthur catches her in both arms and dips her back just slightly. “Oh, really?” he says. “Well. I think I can live up to that.”

She swallows a little sound and blinks at him. "See? You're having fun right now."

“I save it up for when you’re around,” Arthur says affably, but he doesn’t set her back on her feet. 

Unfortunately, Ariadne thinks that's true. Another reason to regret going back to Paris. But since she can't stay, at least she's going to make tonight count. "Kiss me again," she says, "Or I'm going to think you don't mean it."

“I mean it,” Arthur says. His hands are steady. He keeps her up.


	46. 4.1 ARIADNE AND EAMES AND YUSUF

Eames doesn't especially enjoy going to Paris, but that's where Ariadne is, so that's where he goes. He told her he'd visit, and besides, he has some ideas about how to teach her forging. Not that she's asked to learn, but she's eager to suck up any kind of knowledge that comes her way.

He brings Yusuf. They've been spending a lot of time together since the Fischer job, and Eames doesn't want him to get away. He'll also be an effective buffer if things don't go well, or if Ariadne asks too many personal questions. It seems to be all she does.

He treats the two of them to dinner when he arrives. It'll make him look like he's got control over his life.

Ariadne starts with snails and looks at Eames over her dish. She’s clearly already gearing herself up to ask pressing questions. 

“I don’t know how you eat those things,” Yusuf says from behind his onion soup.

“So easily,” Ariadne says in seriousness, and slurps one down.

Eames barely tastes his foie gras. He's too busy paying attention to the others. "Bored with Paris yet?" he asks Ariadne, to get the first question in.

“It’s home,” she says. “By now, anyway. Mostly I’m bored with school. I know what I’m not learning.”

Eames hunches forward over his meal to look at her. "That's why I'm here. I know the feeling. And I want to make sure you're not diving in on your own." Take that, everyone who ever said he was too selfish to be nurturing.

“I’m here because I needed a vacation,” Yusuf says. “But if you want a survey course in chemistry…”

“I want a course in everything,” Ariadne says. “I have so many ideas, and I don’t even know which ones are possible.”

Eames realizes he's staring at her and looks at his dinner instead. She's just so much like the Cobbs were, only she's smarter and more grounded in reality. "You have a gift," he tells her. "Honestly, I think you could do just about anything you put your mind to."

Ariadne’s expression flickers, as if she’s trying to choose between humility and not needing any. 

“I think it will be fun,” Yusuf says.

"Yusuf doesn't have any skills to teach you," Eames says. Spending time with Yusuf is wonderfully calming, until they start getting on each other's nerves.

“Let me know how you feel about that next time you’ve got a bullet in you, Eames,” Yusuf says, and slurps.

"Joking, of course," Eames says. He stops short of nudging Yusuf with his foot. He has to be careful. He's too flirty and too angry, and none of it's anything to do with Yusuf or Ariadne. "But honestly, I'd like you to give forging a try."

“Me too. So let’s start tonight,” Ariadne says. “Unless you’re too jetlagged.”

“It’s only a couple hours difference,” Yusuf shrugs. “And I don’t know that either of us sleeps at night anyway.”

Eames laughs and takes a few bites. "Yusuf is up all night being a drug kingpin," he says with his mouth full.

Their server glides by, checking to see if their first courses are eaten yet. Yusuf waves her away with a smile which, somehow, doesn’t seem to charm her. 

“Good,” Ariadne says. “Tonight, then.”

"Wonderful," Eames says. "Thank god. We've been driving each other mad, just the two of us." Or he's been driving Yusuf mad. He knows he's moping a little, and snappish because of it, but he can't seem to stop.

“Happy to break up the monotony,” Ariadne offers. She pushes her plate away, and glances appraisingly at Yusuf. He puts his hands up.

“I’ve been warned off saying things about that to you,” he says. “Don’t you remember? No airing Eames’s personal life in front of strangers, and all that?”

The server comes back and takes their starters away. Yusuf’s isn’t entirely gone, and he looks nonplussed as it vanishes into the air.

“Yeah, well, about that,” says Ariadne.

"What?" Eames says, suddenly focused again.

“Well, we haven’t talked about--since the last time I saw you,” Ariadne says.

“You talked about something?” Yusuf says to Eames. “I’m impressed.”

"I talk about things all the time," Eames says. "I just don't talk about myself." He wishes he had something in front of him to pick at. "What were you after?"

“I don’t want to tell you your business,” Ariadne says. “I just wondered if you’ve talked to him.”

"No," Eames says shortly. He knew she'd do this. He was ready. He just has nothing to say about it. Of course he hasn't talked to Arthur. Arthur wouldn't call him, and he hasn't yet worked up a pretense to contact Arthur.

Ariadne nods slowly. “Oh,” she says. Whatever she has to say next is put on hold while their main courses are put in front of them. She thanks the server and looks down at her duck. When they’re alone again, she says, “I have.”

"Ah," Eames says, before his brain really catches up with what she's said. He stares at his pork knuckles and thinks very carefully about what he can say that won't sound desperate (to Yusuf) or dismissive (to Ariadne). "What about?" he says finally.

“Um,” says Ariadne, and when he looks up, he can see her blushing. “A lot of things, actually.”

He narrows his eyes and tries not to look at Yusuf. "Any reason you're bringing it up?"

“Because as dedicated as both of you are to not speaking to one another,” Ariadne says, “and even though you are the one who gave me his number, it would be weird of me not to mention that I’m friends with you both.”

"Friends," he says. Are he and Ariadne? Are she and Arthur? He supposes he should be glad Arthur is alive and talking to _someone_. "Well, I won't hold it against you," he says. "You caught us in a rough patch. It's not as if we're enemies." But it's not as if they're anything else, either.

Ariadne says, “Okay, all right. I just wanted to--do you still want to know how he is?”

“Oh, dear,” Yusuf says, and digs into his salt fish, head down.

"No harm in that, I suppose," Eames says breezily. He still isn't eating. Did Arthur reach out to her? Or is she that interested in him?

“Okay,” Ariadne says. She’s still a little pink, and he doesn’t know why. “Well. He’s working. A lot. And he looked all right when I saw him a couple weeks ago--”

"A couple of weeks?" Eames demands. "Just to be clear, are you working with him? Or--?"

“Well, he called me to apologize,” she says. “Before I could use the number. We’ve been talking ever since.”

“That clears everything up,” Yusuf says. “Please, put Eames out of his misery before dinner is ruined.”

Eames thinks dinner is already somewhat ruined. "He apologized? For what?"

“For the plane,” Ariadne says. “We’re not working together, really, just brainstorming and--and talking. I’m sorry, I’m really screwing this up, aren’t I?”

"It's fine." Eames is very good at sounding fine. "But you're holding back all the interesting bits. It's not as if he apologized to anyone else for the plane, after all. Why you? What did he really want?"

“I think,” Ariadne says carefully, “that I’m the only one he thought he’d scared. And I told you, Eames, he really thinks you hate him.”

"I don't," Eames says. He really wishes Yusuf were elsewhere. "Far from it. He's an idiot." Right now he's mostly just worried about Arthur.

Ariadne pokes guiltily at her food.

“Well, he’s all right,” she says. “We mostly just email. About dream stuff. But when I saw him, he was…well, he was all right, I thought.”

“Oh, Ariadne,” Yusuf says. “Don’t trust pretty faces.”

Ariadne looks upset.

"Yusuf is also an idiot," Eames says, heart sinking. "No, sorry, go on. I'd rather know everything than nothing."

“Oh, no,” Ariadne says. “I really don’t want to tell you everything.”

Eames gives up and starts eating. "Because it's not my business. Fair, but I can't--Look, if he honestly thinks I hate him, I have to do something about that." He glances at Yusuf. "Don't I?"

“No,” Ariadne says. “I mean, yes. I think you should. Because I don’t think he hates you. And, he seems fine to me, but I don’t know him that well. I know where he’s living, I’ll tell you where to go.”

“Eames,” Yusuf starts.

"What?" Eames says. "What could you possibly have to say that would change my mind? You knew I'd track him down eventually. She's just making it easier." In the back of his mind, he's both picking apart what Ariadne's saying and congratulating her on being so clever.

“I was going to say, if you’re going, be nice,” Yusuf tells him. “Even if he is an idiot who left you because he doesn’t know what good is.”

"Oh," Eames says. As if, after the way things ended, he could be anything else. "Yeah. I will. But if he tries to act all professional with me again, that's off the table."

Ariadne exhales. “Okay. I’m glad I brought it up, then. I mean, if you’re going. He’s in Boston.”

Eames breathes a sigh of relief. He wouldn't have guessed that. And Boston is small enough that he'll be able to work out the details, even if Ariadne doesn't have an address for him. He'll just have to make a little more money first. "I'll go see him," he says. "Just to clear the air."

Ariadne makes an uncomfortable sound.

“What’s still wrong with you?” Yusuf says.

“I wonder if I should have taken your advice,” she says. “You know, about pretty faces.”

"Hang on," Eames says. "What?"

“You’re really broken up,” she says. “Right?”

"Yes," Eames says. He puts his fork down. _Oh._

Ariadne’s blush comes back, and she looks slightly mortified. It’s a funny expression, on her face. “I mean, I’m glad if you’re going to make things right. It wasn’t anything serious. I just would feel really awful, if it wasn’t a real breakup, and I...”

Eames suddenly feels bad and waves her off. "Don't worry about it," he says. "I don't need to know. Because he and I are...nothing worth mentioning." Arthur sleeping with someone else is hardly the issue, anyway.

“Well,” says Ariadne. “Hopefully you’ll be something worth mentioning. It seems like you miss him a lot.”

Yusuf makes a noise of agreement, or, something complicated that is _like_ agreement. Probably Eames will hear more about it as soon as Ariadne is in a different room.

"Yeah," Eames says. "As you've seen, he's really something. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to eat my dinner." None of that's entirely fair, but he's still integrating the new information. He'll pay Ariadne back later by teaching her whatever's worth knowing about forging.

“Yes, thanks,” Ariadne says. “Okay! Well, that’s all the awkward stuff I had lined up. I just thought I should tell you sooner rather than later.”

“Good idea,” Yusuf says. “You know he’d just be waiting for the knee to the gut if you put it off.”

“I don’t want to knee any guts,” Ariadne says.

“No, no,” Yusuf agrees. He smiles at Ariadne, and pats Eames’s wrist.

Eames is extremely glad he decided to bring Yusuf.

“I can tell you’re going to make the first lesson hell,” Ariadne says contemplatively. But she eats her duck like she’s not too worried about it.


	47. 4.6 ALWAYS GO BACK TO YUSUF

Yusuf spends a moderate amount of energy, for the rest of their stay in Paris, gauging Eames’s mood. Ariadne has sparked something in him, which might be worry, and might be very normal jealousy, or might be that particular obsessive mania Eames gets about Arthur and has from day one. Yusuf has been on both sides of the Arthur argument. He likes Arthur quite a lot, but he doesn’t really want to be involved in any of Eames’s schemes to hunt him down.

He knows all the time that he’s going to be cornered, though, and it happens as they’re walking from the hotel to Ariadne’s flat for a round of dreaming.

"So, if I do see him," Eames begins, almost as soon as they hit the street. "If I do, I'd want to make sure everything's right. You know, I don't want him to think I'm only turning up for charity or something. I'm a little short on cash, I'd like to solve that first. If I go. Which I am." Eames doesn't usually babble.

“Eames,” Yusuf says, “it’s not that I believe you when you say you’re done with him for good and so on, but you _do_ keep saying it. What’s going on in your head right now?”

"Nothing," Eames says. "I just--Ariadne threw me off balance."

“So you’re not going, then?” Yusuf asks.

"No," Eames says, "I'm going. I just haven't worked out what to say yet. We didn't exactly leave things in a good place. But look, what if he needs me and he's just too proud to say it?"

Yusuf grimaces. “Not improbable. But--and I say this with the deepest affection for all involved--the last several times you’ve parted ways, you, Eames, have been a wreck. There was Paris, and then Fischer--you said you were tired of being shouted at and dragged around!”

"I said that in the moment," Eames says primly. "Now I'm well fed and well rested and I've had time to think about it. A visit can't hurt. I'm not saying rekindle the flame or anything."

Yusuf is quite certain that a visit can hurt.

“You’re not just going because he slept with her, are you?” he says.

Eames looks at the sky, as if examining it for impending rain. "Well," he says. "No. Of course not. She's a lovely person. Who wouldn't sleep with her?"

Yusuf snorts in disbelief.

"Fine," Eames says. "You've known me too long, unfortunately. It's not _unrelated_. But really, she told me to go." As if Ariadne is someone he can't disobey.

“Well, if you’re going,” Yusuf says, “you’d better have a good plan for what you’re going to do. Let me reiterate. Your last _I just want to see how he is_ turned into the Fischer job.”

If pressed on the issue, Yusuf would say with certainty that Arthur is not coping nearly as well as gossip and Ariadne suggest. And he prefers Arthur to be well. Those things aren’t in question. The question is whether Arthur and Eames can make each other happy, when they’ve never had the chance to be together without the Cobbs getting in and ruining everything. Yusuf’s not even sure they won’t still. 

"I will have a plan," Eames says, dignified. "I won't go until I know exactly what I'm going to say, how long I'm going to stay in Boston, all of that."

“Because it always goes according to plan,” Yusuf sighs. “Well, I don’t want to tell you your business, but as you’re _making_ me--you’d better not make a show of it.”

Eames gives him a smooth, bright smile. "Of course not. I'll just nip over to Boston, check up on him, stay in the area a few days so we can get coffee and whatnot, and then leave. See? A plan."

This plan sounds unlikely, and therefore terrible. 

“All right,” Yusuf says dubiously. “I’d just rather no one ended up hurt.”

"I won't hurt him," Eames says, looking up again, perhaps so he can get away with being obtuse.

“Eames, please,” Yusuf says. “Just keep in mind you’re not the only one who gets tired of mopping a man up every time his lovers have finished with him.”

Eames winces, and this time he does look at Yusuf. "I won't come crying to you, don't worry. And honestly, I don't know what to expect. Maybe he's doing fine, like she said. Maybe she's helping enough."

"Then I'm sure your coffee date will go just splendidly," Yusuf says. Though he doesn't really think Arthur could possibly be fine. "Just take care, will you? Of yourself."

"I will," Eames says. "I'll make sure I'm in good standing before I go over there. Money, new clothes, jobs lined up, all of that. So if it doesn't go well, I'll have plenty to fall back on."

“You can call me if you’re dying,” Yusuf allows.

"A true friend," Eames says, but like he means it. "Do you think it'll look too terrible? Like I haven't got the hint?"

Yusuf thinks very hard before he answers. “Ariadne,” he says.

"That's not my name, Yusuf," Eames says, kicking a broken piece of sidewalk away from the curb.

“Aren’t you darling,” Yusuf says. “No. The reason you’re all--” He flaps his hands. “-- _wild_ , like this, is because Ariadne says Arthur thinks you hate him. Isn’t that right?” 

"Well done, detective," Eames sighs. "I just can't understand it. I've chased him until it looks bloody pathetic. How can he think that?"

“Well,” says Yusuf matter-of-factly, “he left you. Which might make you a little peevish. And then you didn’t speak, really, until _the_ job, and then, if I’m honest, Eames, every word out of your mouth was an insult. And he was very unpleasant at the end. I’m not saying he’s right but you might see how he came up with the idea.”

Eames stops. "He left me," he says. "Let's go back to that. He left me and didn't come back. It's not like we were lovers and strangers! We were supposed to be friends! You can't blame me for being angry with him. And he's an idiot if he thinks being angry is the same thing as hating him."

“I never said he isn’t an idiot,” Yusuf says.

"And that's why I have to go," Eames says with finality, He starts walking again, so abruptly that Yusuf takes a moment to catch up.

“Right, yes, of course,” Yusuf says. “My _point_ is, Arthur the idiot probably doesn’t even know you’re pining, so how can he think you’re pathetic?”

"Ah, you've got me there," Eames says. "Regardless, I don't want to show up there until I really have things together." It's never exactly clear to Yusuf what state of financial disaster Eames is in at any given time.

“You’re not going to tell him you’re coming, are you,” Yusuf says wearily. 

"Naturally I'm not." Eames seems to be cheering up a bit, as he weaves his plan. "I'll do a few jobs and then make my way there for the next one. Then I'll "track him down" and pay him a visit. I'll have to make sure Ariadne doesn't mention anything."

“Don’t tell her anything or she’ll go and tell _him_!” Yusuf says.

"Christ, she’s awful." Eames shakes his head. "No, sorry, I don't mean that. I didn't plan on dealing with this at all."

Yusuf knows, but he’s privately not surprised that Eames is leaping on a chance; and if it can just go well, Yusuf is glad. A tiny piece of him can ignore all of the probable calamities and imagine Eames settled down and really happy for the first time since Yusuf has known him. It’s a foolish thought, but he can’t help casting long and loving looks at it, here and there.

“You let me know what happens,” Yusuf says.

"Before or after not making you pick up the pieces?" Eames asks innocently.

“Just don’t!” Yusuf says. “Just have it go well! Give me patience.”

"I know, I know," Eames mutters. "I want that. Look we're nearly there. Talk to me about something else so I don't talk too much and wind up pushing her to tell Arthur something."

“Aaghh,” Yusuf says. He does perform well under pressure. He doesn’t _like_ to. “Are you going to start having her do faces yet? Or, I know, you can tell her which weird bits of your psychology all of your regulars come from.”

Eames lights up. "Oh, _yes_ ," he says. "I'd absolutely be interested in that. I'm feeling wild. What's the harm? She'll sort it all out on her own if I don't." He slings his arm around Yusuf. “What would I do without you?"

“Give it a week and we’ll find out,” Yusuf says ominously, but he pats Eames’s back, and very skillfully changes the subject.


	48. 5.3 FOR FUCK’S SAKE MOVE IN ALREADY

Arthur lands in Boston because of a job he ends up forfeiting. He’s always thought Boston is too little and not pretty enough to make up for it, but by the time the job falls through, he likes the apartment. And it’s not like he’s got plans to go somewhere better. Besides, it’s close enough to Philadelphia that he can drive if he wants. It’s far enough that he can stop going if he wants.

(He doesn’t even try to wake Dom up anymore, just sits in his room smelling hospital and fielding calls from Saito. Maybe he should stop, just get out of there and admit all of it's over, but what the hell is the right thing to do in this situation?)

He’s been in Boston for over a month. He’s seen Ariadne, he’s talked to Saito. Talked to a few employers. Mostly, it’s just him and Tira in a two bedroom walkup. They live above an older couple that likes to recommend bakeries. Arthur usually takes their advice.

His phone rings one morning when it's early enough that nobody should be calling him. Arthur is splayed out on the couch where he half-fell asleep a few hours before, the cat on his stomach. The phone rings somewhere under his left ribs. He fumbles it out from under himself and squints at the number and then finds himself in a state of minor crisis, because it’s Eames.

The phone is ringing and it’s Eames.

Arthur watches the phone ring while he tries to figure out, rationally, what Eames could want. A job--they do jobs now, right? Except Arthur wasn’t exactly at his best, the last time he saw Eames. Maybe it’s not a job, maybe Eames is calling to chew him out over Dom, over that mess on the plane. Maybe Eames has been kidnapped and someone’s calling for ransom. He can’t guess, not really. He hasn’t expected Eames to call ever again. 

The call rings through and no one leaves a voicemail, and Arthur feels a deep, creeping sorrow at not having answered. Then he begins to feel like the call was a dream and the phone never rang. But the phone rings again, about thirty seconds later.

Arthur picks up.

"What's your address?" Eames says immediately. He sounds out of breath, but it's definitely him.

That’s the dream feeling coming back.

“Eames?” Arthur says. “Is that you?”

"Yes, but it won't be in a minute, if you don't tell me your address," Eames says. "Honestly, it's a little bit urgent. You haven't moved recently?"

“What? No,” Arthur says. He wonders if it’s too soon to give up understanding what is going on. “I mean, a month ago. Why?”

"In that case," Eames says, "I'm outside. Let me in."

Arthur sits up, hefting the cat onto his shoulder on the way, and goes into the kitchen. He looks out the front kitchen window, down at the street. Eames isn’t kidding. He’s standing right down there, with a suitcase and a hideous shirt.

"Either let me in or tell me you won't," Eames says. "I have somewhere I have to be, if not." As Arthur watches, he turns in a slow circle, checking the empty early-morning street.

“Hang on,” Arthur says. He turns away from the window in degrees, like Eames might become unreal if Arthur stops looking. At the door, he juggles Tira and the phone to hit the buzzer with his elbow. Eames hangs up, and almost immediately Arthur can hear him on the stairs. When Arthur opens the door, Eames is standing there, suitcase in hand.

"Morning," Eames says, with forced cheerfulness. "Could I--?" He looks around as if he's not sure whether he's invited or not. Arthur knows exactly how they got to the point where both of them weren’t always invited, but this is the first time Eames has come looking for him. It's the first time he's seen it in action like this. The hesitation makes Arthur feel misshapen for his skin. He thinks of being kissed in Paris, with Eames’s hands caught between Arthur’s shirt and his skin. He blinks to chase the memory away.

“You can come in,” he says. “What’s going on?”

Eames steps inside. "It's my understanding," he says, "that you think I hate you. While I can understand why you might think that, I thought I should come get some things clear." He's speaking very carefully, as if he's holding some emotion in.

Arthur backs up a step, to make room for Eames and maybe for the feeling, too.

“Can you shut the door?” he says. “The cat.”

"Right," Eames says guiltily. He puts the suitcase down and shuts the door behind him. "How is my Tira?" He reaches out and chucks her under the chin without looking at Arthur. Tira twists her head to one side to really get it under the ear. Arthur watches her smile, whiskers twitching, with Eames’s fingers in her fur. He stops his breathing in the middle of an inhale, lets it all out again so it won’t bubble over into something he can’t manage.

“She’s been good,” he says. “She likes it here. Lots of dogs to hate in this neighborhood.”

"Good," Eames says emphatically. He looks around the apartment. "This is nice. Big. Look, Arthur…The way we left things was a mess. Yes?"

“There’s blood on your shirt,” says Arthur. “That your blood?” 

He realizes after he’s said it that it sounds like a deflection. And maybe he is distracted--but it’s a practical question and Arthur thinks he’ll be better equipped to deal with Eames’s bizarre appearance if he deals with something practical first. He pulls Tira away from Eames and puts her on the floor.

"Oh," Eames says. "No, not mine. Don't worry, they didn't catch up to me. I was trying to--Well, let's just say this isn't the entrance I planned to make."

Arthur nods. “All right. What kind--?” But Eames clearly doesn’t want to answer that yet. First: “Mess, you said.” Practical things.

"You did scream at me and neglect to contact me ever again," Eames says lightly.

Arthur grants him the screaming part--he feels bad and tired about that part--but the rest makes him a little angry. Between being dumped in Paris and harassed all the way through the Fischer job, Arthur doesn’t understand how he was supposed to assume that talking was on the table.

“I didn’t think we were in a talking place,” he says. “I’m sorry about the--screaming.”

"Well," Eames says a little shortly, "as long as you're sorry. But for god's sake, Arthur, do you really think I hate you? And have you been using that as excuse not try to patch things up? Because that's a bit of a stretch."

This is all dreadful and baffling. Eames seems to think Arthur’s been going out of his way looking for reasons to keep each other at arm’s length. In reality, Arthur has missed Eames so much since leaving him in Paris that sometimes he forgets to keep breathing. Sometimes he doesn’t want to breathe.

He says, “I just thought you wouldn’t want to talk.”

"Christ," Eames mutters. "You really _did_ think I hated you. Well, now I'm here." He glances sidelong at the suitcase. "Very much here. Let's talk."

Arthur glances at the suitcase as well, and isn’t pleased that it doesn’t give up any secrets.

“You’re all right?” he asks.

"Actually," Eames says, "I very nearly wasn't. I'm actually in a bit of a predicament. I hadn't planned to come here in need of assistance. Considering."

Arthur frowns. “I thought you said they didn’t catch you.”

"They didn't," Eames says. "But trouble did. I'm a bit short on cash. And belongings." He shifts uncomfortably. "I really didn't come here to discuss this…"

Arthur latches onto the kind of problem he can fix, again. “Are you stranded?” he asks.

"Yeah," Eames says after a second. "Haven't got a room, even. It wasn't the plan."

Arthur thinks before he even says it that it’s a stupid thing to say, but the answer is right there, so close he can literally shuffle a few feet down the hall and touch it. He forgets to be angry for a second.

He says, like it’s no big deal, “I’ve got a spare room.”

Eames looks at him, eyebrows raised, apparently stunned into silence. Finally he says, "Well, that won't get you out of clearing the air, understood?"

Arthur hears what he says, and is duly annoyed, but something--some detail--catches him around the annoyance, and he can’t stop looking at Eames like the look is keeping him alive. Everything--the way Eames moves when he talks, his smell, the defensive edge in his slightly worried voice--they’re all mapping themselves to years of miniscule memories, kept at a distance in Arthur’s mind. It’s like a part of Arthur is being put back from pieces and being told it’s worth something. 

Arthur expected never to see Eames again.

“I understand that,” Arthur says. “I don’t--understand what you want.”

"I want to know what it's going to take for us to move past all this," Eames says slowly. "I don't just mean the plane. I mean Paris, and all of it. Because we've both been given a chance we didn't have before, and I don't want you wasting it by sitting here thinking I hate you."

Arthur doesn’t know for certain why he keeps phrasing it that way, but he suddenly has a strong suspicion that someone in particular has put the phrase in his head.

He says, “Did you think that I might hate _you?”_

“Yes,” Eames says shortly. “After all that? It had crossed my mind. I wasn’t planning on ever calling you again, because it did, in fact, seem very likely that you hated me. But then Ariadne had to come along and open her mouth, so here I am--checking.”

“Oh,” says Arthur. His voice isn’t even. “Well. I don’t.”

“And I don’t,” Eames says. He smiles weakly. “So I will definitely stay in your spare room.”

“Great,” Arthur says. It’s not everything, but it’ll do. It’s enormous. It’s enough. “Great, that’s--” His breath catches and he can’t go on.

“Look,” Eames says, “whatever else we have to say, I just want--” He stops, too. Then he pulls Arthur in a tight, tight hug, squeezing him close. Surprisingly, it isn’t awkward. It just feels like Eames, hugging him.

Arthur hugs back. He shuts his eyes and leans his forehead against the curve of Eames’s neck, right in the blood, probably. Who cares?

“Shh,” Eames mutters after a moment. He’s not letting go. “I’m not going anywhere, darling. I’m not.” He pauses. “Well, and I don’t actually have anywhere _to_ go, at the moment.”

Arthur laughs, feeling slightly unreal. “Shopping,” he says. “You have to go shopping. There’s no bed in the spare bedroom. And--what’s in the suitcase, anyway?”

“Good question,” Eames says, a little sheepish. “Be nice if it were money. It’s probably just a PASIV. There were some...mix-ups. And yet, here I am showing up on your doorstep as my absolute best self.” Now he seems less sheepish and more bitter.

Arthur frowns and takes a step back to look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says.

“It was sarcasm,” Eames says, but he doesn’t follow it up with anything cutting about Arthur’s ability to recognize sarcasm. “I didn’t intend to show up bloodstained and empty-handed. That’s not generally a good start. But if the plan is for both of us to be honest and hash things out, maybe this is for the best.”

Caustic, Arthur would have said, instead of sarcastic.

“Oh,” says Arthur. “No. You’re all right, Eames. That’s how we do it, right?”

Eames laughs, uncertain at first, then a real laugh. “That is how we do it. How are you, Arthur, really?”

Arthur relaxes. 

“I’m all right,” he says. “I feel like shit.”

“Yeah,” Eames says, and Arthur can see him relax, too. “For a while, I bet. Since before the Fischer job.”

Arthur takes a second, then says, “Yeah. Since before then.” He generally tries not to trace it to an origin point, because he’s found that when he does that, all he gets is a list of every bad thing that’s ever happened to him with all the happiness erased.

But this unhappiness definitely arrived before the Fischer job.

“Well,” Eames says, looking around the room. “I didn’t come here to drag you through all that.” There’s a pause where Arthur thinks Eames might be about to say _yet_. “I just came to see where we stand and possibly to adjust it.”

Arthur isn’t a complete idiot, so he doesn’t cry or kiss Eames or tell him to stay forever. He says, “Let me get you something to wear. And when you’re done mocking it, we can have breakfast, and maybe later buy you something else? And we can talk.”

Eames is silent, watching Arthur’s face. Then he says, “I’d like that. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “Don’t worry.”

He feels like something he had, or almost had, is in reach. It wasn’t anywhere close to that ten minutes ago. Arthur is feeling a little dizzy.

“Hang on,” he says, and trips over the cat on his way into the bedroom.

“What was your plan for the second bedroom, if I didn’t show up?” Eames calls after him. He sounds a little too casual. 

Arthur rummages. Nothing is wide enough. 

“It was picked for a job,” he answers loudly. “Job fell through. Liked the place.”

“Ah. Not for Ariadne, then?”

“What?” Arthur says, not loudly enough. He takes what’s in his hands with him into the living room and says, “What?”

Eames looks abashed. “Well, I don’t know. I can see I was wrong.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows.

“All right, all right,” Eames says testily. “Maybe I was just being jealous. Not that I’ve a right, at this particular juncture.”

“She talked a _lot_ , huh?” Arthur says. 

“Secrets and lies are not really that girl’s forte,” Eames says. “Don’t blame her.”

“I’m not,” says Arthur. “Here.” He holds out a white undershirt and his only hoodie. “Your pants are okay, right? I don’t think you’ll fit mine.”

Eames laughs. “Definitely not. You’re built like a fairy. It’s fine, no blood on the pants.”

“Fairy,” Arthur mutters.

(Normal, he thinks. This feels _normal_.)

“I need coffee,” he adds. 

“I’ve barely slept,” Eames says. “Coffee for all? Don’t worry, I’ll be finding honest work soon and I’ll pay you back for all of this.”

“Don’t start there,” Arthur says. “All right?”

That was almost the last thing Eames talked about in Paris, and Arthur isn’t interested in revisiting the issue. He always has money. He has to spend it on something.

“We’ll start with coffee and clothes I can wear in public,” Eames agrees. “But I have to say, this is already significantly better than how we parted ways.”

Arthur heads into the kitchen and starts digging out supplies. Coffee, yes, and cook something while you’re at it. 

Tira interrupts his train of thought by ramming her head into his calf and yowling.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “Your breakfast first, right?”

Eames joins him. “Can I? I really missed this little darling.”

“You can do it,” Arthur says. “Just half a can, remember?” He measures coffee into the filter and tells himself his hands are perfectly steady. They _are_ perfectly steady. It's his head that's rattling.

“I remember,” Eames says quietly. “Love, can I say something?”

Arthur stops with the carafe halfway to the sink. He doesn't turn around. He listens to that word _love_ and gets scared. There are so many ways for that word to go wrong.

Eames clears his throat. “I'm sorry,” he says. “About the way I was before. I was hurt. I'm not now.”

“It's okay,” says Arthur. “It all went worse than it was supposed to.” Everything from Dom’s phone call onward. “I'm glad to know it wasn't--permanent.”

He turns off the faucet and turns around. 

“What are you looking for?” he asks. “You want to get back on the same page, but I don't know what page you want to be on.”

“It depends,” Eames says, “on if you think I'm a monster who can't fix anything.” 

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Shit.”

“Shit,” Eames agrees flatly. He puts Tira’s bowl of food down and gives her a pat.

There’d been that bad moment on the plane itself, but Arthur had barely noticed Eames until they were off the plane and Eames was trying to go with him to the hospital. What could Arthur say? Eames had spent the entire venture cutting him down over staying with Dom, and now he wanted to help? Arthur had been panicking. He hadn’t reacted well. Aside from saying that Eames had never fixed a problem, he knows he called Eames jealous. 

He _thinks_ he accused Eames of only wanting to go along so he could pull the plug. 

“I didn’t--” says Arthur. But he did mean it, at the time. “I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry.”

"Yeah?" Eames says. "Good. I wasn't sure. I didn't know how much of it you might still be feeling."

“Only the part where I know you hate him,” Arthur says. “That’s okay. I didn’t like him much by then either.”

"And now?" Eames says. "Forget it, not a fair question. I suppose it doesn't much matter now."

Arthur fills the coffee maker, sets the carafe down, and flicks the switch. “We weren’t together anymore,” Arthur says. “So no, I don’t think it matters now.”

Eames sighs and kneels down to pat the cat, who is still eating. "I guess my real question is, do you want me around? In any capacity? Because I'm not exactly enjoying not even being able to call you."

Arthur says, “I invited you to stay.” He bites his tongue before he can say anything really stupid, like _please don’t leave me._

"And I am incredibly fucking grateful." Eames stands up again and smiles at Arthur. "Although to be fair, I forced your hand by being homeless and on the run."

“You’ve done the same for me,” Arthur says. Eames keeps picking at the invitation--Arthur can see he doesn’t believe Arthur means anything by it. He wonders what, exactly, he can say that will make Eames understand. He wonders if Eames has any idea of the staggering amount of energy Arthur has spent this year trying not to miss him.

"Fair," Eames says. "Well. I'm grateful, for however long you put me up. I can't tell you what a bloody relief it is to see you."

Behind Arthur, the coffeemaker spits. Arthur puts the heels of his hands against the counter’s edge. He tests it out in his head before he says it: _I miss you._ It sounds all right.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. “I screwed it up. I know I screwed it all up. But I--” His voice cracks. It doesn’t really make it better, saying how much he hated screwing it up when he went ahead and did it anyway.

"Wait," Eames says. He comes over to Arthur and takes his hands. "Wait, wait. I'm not here to rake you over the coals, all right?"

Eames’s hands are warm and a little rough, and exactly what Arthur remembers.

“Change your shirt,” Arthur says. “I’m making breakfast.” He half-pulls his hands away and then gets the nerve--he says what he’s thinking before the nerve can creep away on him. “I thought you were gone for good,” he says. “I didn't want that. Please don’t take off without--please don't just leave. I mean, unless you have to. It's not what I want.”

"Oh," Eames says, looking at Arthur like he can see right down inside him. "Arthur. I'm not leaving. All right? I promise."

Arthur always moves too fast with Eames. He says carefully, “You can. Of course. When you’re back on your feet, if you want to go somewhere else. I’m not trying to make you move in with me five minutes after you walk through the door, that would be crazy, I’m just saying.”

"There are crazier things," Eames says. "That's essentially what I asked you to do, back in--Well, you know. Let me, I'm going to get changed and cleaned up a bit. See you in ten." He gives Arthur's arm a squeeze and disappears into the bathroom.

Arthur takes the time to start pancakes and feel mortified. His brain still isn’t entirely sure he’s awake. He’s still partly sure he’s dreaming and will wake up heartbroken. He has to abandon the first round of pancakes on the griddle to stand by the bathroom door and listen to the shower run.

It’s real. It’s absurd. But it’s real. And it’s Eames, so odds are low that he’ll yank it out from under Arthur, if Arthur understands correctly that he is what Eames wants.

Arthur doesn’t care who dumped who or what anyone said, at this point. He just wants Eames to touch him, and to still be here to do it again tomorrow. Is that something he can ask for? Can he have that? God, this is terrifying.

Eames emerges shortly, hair damp, wearing Arthur's sweatshirt. "Well," he says, "You have awful fashion sense." And he laughs, warm and friendly, while looking Arthur right in the eye.

“That’s not true,” Arthur says, from beside a pile of pancakes. “Although I can see why you might pretend it is.”

"Pancakes!" Eames says. He sounds surprised. "You must have really missed me."

Arthur starts blinking before he knows what’s happening.

"I missed you, too," Eames says. "Come here. That first hug wasn't nearly enough." And he wraps his arms around Arthur again, rocking him back and forth a little. Arthur’s breath hitches, and he claws his way into a kiss before he can doubt himself. 

Eames kisses back, just as desperate. His hands are on Arthur's waist, and then he's hauling Arthur closer, kissing and kissing him. He doesn't stop until he's breathless, and then he only pulls away a fraction. His eyes are glistening.

“This is better,” Arthur says, winded. “This is better. Do you want your coffee?” He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’d go for anything right now. He'd do anything Eames said.

"Could we maybe--" Eames laughs and drags a hand across his face. "I know you just made pancakes, but let's leave them."

“Yes,” Arthur says. “Leave them.”


	49. 12.5 MOVE IN AND FUCK ALREADY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sex.

Eames is still reeling. He hadn't expected Arthur to even open the door, let alone invite him to stay, let alone...this. It's unbelievable, but the simple truth seems to be that Eames has misunderstood Arthur. After all this time, it shouldn't be a surprise that he's gotten it wrong again.

He grabs Arthur's forearms and kisses him again, propelling him backward toward the bedroom. Arthur feels like--like _Arthur_. He lets Eames push him and only pushes back hard enough to show that he’s here, and paying attention. He doesn’t stop kissing Eames for even a second, not even to push the cat out the door with his foot and kick it closed behind her. 

Eames remembers being like this with Arthur, in hotels and in Paris and everywhere in between. He remembers Arthur tasting just like this, breathing just like this, but now they have years of history between them. That makes everything here and now feel fraught, but also so much better. Eames pushes his hand under Arthur's shirt to feel the heat of him.

Arthur’s breath catches and he stills, only for a moment. Then he says, “You know, there are easier ways to hook up with somebody.” Most people, Eames thinks, wouldn’t hear the humor in it. Most people wouldn’t even hear the reverence in it.

"And yet, you're worth the effort," Eames says, bare and guileless. As if there was ever a question of that. He kisses Arthur (can't stop kissing Arthur) and helps tug Arthur's shirt off.

Arthur lets it drop, looks Eames up and down, and says, “Or maybe this is just a way for you to get out of wearing my clothes.” He says it with that straight face of his, and then he catches Eames’s eyes and smiles. 

Eames bursts into laughter that's a little anxious and mostly deeply relieved. He catches one of Arthur's hands between his and kisses his fingers. "You'll never be able to hide the extent of your wardrobe again." Never, for as long as they're here together. The feeling catches him off guard with another wave of relief.

Arthur’s hand tenses in his, and he looks at Eames with the hungriest, barest expression Eames has ever seen on him. Before Eames can say anything, think of any way to comfort him, Arthur says, “Come here. Come _here_ ,” and takes Eames’s face in both hands and kisses him so hard it hurts.

A moment later Eames’s Arthur shirt is coming over his head, and then they’re tugging at buttons and pushing at pants and falling into bed, all the words chased out of them.

Eames loses himself in Arthur. He remembers Arthur's body, and where to touch him, and how. It's so easy, but at the same time it feels brand new. Eames whispers, "There, love," as he puts his mouth on Arthur's hip bone.

Arthur chokes, his hand tight in Eames’s hair, and says, “ _God._ ” He’s flushed, the way he gets. His other hand is fiercely clamped around Eames’s wrist, shaking with his efforts to hold himself together. Or maybe that’s not it. Maybe this is all about letting themselves fall apart. 

Eames keeps his eyes open the whole time he's touching Arthur everywhere. He wants to see every little reaction, to check that this is Arthur, being himself. Eames is flushed and panting by the time he starts to believe it's real.

Arthur touches Eames’s chest, and when he looks up, Arthur says, “Anything. I don’t need complicated, okay? I just need…I just need you.”

Eames ducks his head in a nod. "Got you, darling." He uses his hand, because he wants to be able to keep whispering in Arthur's ear. He touches him and says all the things that lit Arthur up before, back when they didn't know where they stood, before they were this safe. Arthur grabs hold of him, face buried against his neck, one hand reaching down to touch Eames in return. 

It’s funny--it _is_ funny--because this is just like the first time they ever slept together, and so, so different.

Eames presses against Arthur, not wanting any part of them not to be touching. He's overwhelmed, but at the same time, he knows everything he wants and how to get it. He closes his eyes and kisses Arthur, feeling the heat build in his body.

“Shit,” Arthur mumbles. “Shit, shit--” He grabs hold of Eames so tightly that Eames’s bones ache, so tightly that when he comes the sound is muffled against Eames’s skin. Arthur’s own hand stops moving for a few seconds, while Arthur collects himself. Only a few seconds, though, and then the feeling of Arthur’s hand takes Eames over.

Eames makes a lot of noise. He doesn't even give a shit. When he's done, he holds onto Arthur just as tightly as before, gripping his wrists and refusing to leave any space between them.

Finally he says, "Easy enough to come back to, wasn't it?"

Arthur looks at him with the most familiar expression, one where, if you didn’t know him, you might be afraid of what he was thinking. He doesn’t say anything, although Eames thinks he might be about to.

There’s an agonized meow outside the bedroom door.

Arthur’s stoic expression cracks, and he starts to laugh. 

"Christ," Eames says. He rolls away from Arthur. "We've traumatized her." He can't stop grinning, in the face of Arthur's laughter.

“She’ll probably recover,” Arthur says. “I’m not so sure about the neighbors. It’s five thirty in the morning, you know that?”

"Oh, I had no idea," Eames says innocently. "Fleeing for one's life isn't always convenient for others." He swipes a thumb across Arthur's chin. "What about that breakfast, hm?"

“Breakfast,” Arthur agrees. “We can’t exactly bring you out shopping yet.” His expression sobers. “We can talk,” he says. “We can talk. Just let me finish making the coffee first, all right?”

Eames nods. "Coffee, then talking." He isn't looking forward to this part, but he wants very badly for this to work. For the first time in a long time, he believes it can.

Arthur hesitates, and then, in one quick motion, he kisses Eames’s forehead and gets out of bed and out of range, his expression out of sight. 

“Let me just find my pants,” he says.


	50. 12.6 IT’S TIME TO TALK LIKE MOTHERFUCKING ADULTS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

Eames takes a deep breath and pushes himself back from the table a little. He looks unhappy. "Well, for starters, Paris. After Paris. After you left, I didn't know what was going on for you. What _was_ going on for you? Not with the Cobbs, I mean in your head."

Arthur buys time by fixing his coffee up the way he likes it. He dings the spoon against the edge of his mug and sets it down and takes a sip. He imagines trying to point at the feeling of being shut off from Eames while the world was falling apart, a number on a pain scale at the doctor’s office. He imagines a dozen different things to say, and all of them scare him, but he promised, didn’t he? He promised they would talk.

“I was homesick,” he says. That’s still an absolutely absurd way of understating it. “For you,” he adds, almost inaudibly.

Eames looks stricken. "I didn't know," he says. "That wasn't my understanding of the situation at all."

It isn’t? Then what the hell is?

“It’s not like I wanted to leave you,” Arthur says. 

"It's not like you looked back," Eames says, but gently.

“No,” says Arthur, shaking his head. “Because you told me I couldn’t. You broke up with me.”

Eames's brow furrows. "I didn't," he says.

There’s a sudden ringing in Arthur’s ears. He shakes his head again, harder this time, like he can get the sound out. “No. You did. You said, _You don’t get to do this to me again._ ”

Eames frowns more deeply. "I--yes. I was angry. I was hurt. I didn't want you to _leave_ me again."

It’s hard to breathe. Arthur tries to piece everything together with this fresh intelligence, and he finds it hard to breathe. He’s been hearing it one way-- _If you can’t say no now, I’ll never say yes again_ \--for so many months. He’s been hearing an ultimatum and breaking on it, for _months_. And it wasn’t even right.

“Fuck,” he says slowly.

"You thought I was telling you it was over," Eames says slowly. He looks horrified. "Forever?"

“Because I screwed up too much,” Arthur says. 

"No," Eames says. "Not too much. Not for me. Not ever." His voice is firm, but strained with emotion.

Arthur has to shut his eyes. He thinks of all the blinding misery of the last half year, of being trapped with Dom in his downslide and being unable to sleep with how much he wanted to just go home. Home to Eames, who didn’t want him. 

He really believed Eames would just shut him out.

“It made sense,” he says. His voice is all wrong. “I knew you’d be all right.”

"All right," Eames says softly. "You thought I was all right." His eyes are too bright. "Arthur, you gutted me."

Arthur looks at him, and it’s true. Arthur’s been stupid--they’ve both been _incredibly_ stupid--and Eames hurt as badly as he did and it’s such a waste that Arthur wants to break something. He finds himself squeezing tears out of his vision instead. 

“I just didn’t want her to die,” he says. “I was going to come back.”

Eames grabs Arthur's hand, and he feels anchored. They're here and now, and they haven't lost everything. "I didn't know," Eames says. "I thought you were going forever. I thought _you_ were breaking up with _me_."

A heavy mix of relief and regret weighs on Arthur like a blanket. It’s oddly steadying.

“No,” he says. “Don’t you know that’s impossible? I’ve been following you around the world since before you even liked me, Eames. I’ve crossed the globe a dozen times just to get to where you are. I’m only ever going to stop because you ask me to.”

"Oh." Eames sounds choked. He's staring at Arthur like he doesn't know him, or like he suddenly does. "I didn't realize," he says.

“I love you,” Arthur says, frowning. Maybe he’s never said it before. God, he hasn’t said it before. He starts laughing. “Sorry! I should have mentioned that before.” He says it like it’s ridiculous, because it is.

"Christ," Eames says, tearful. "I love you. I love you." He squeezes Arthur's hand until it hurts.

Arthur is thinking back through everything, from the moment of Dom’s call through now, and replacing his assumptions with a different understanding. 

“The Fischer job,” he says. “You said yes.”

"I had to try, didn't I?" Eames says, opening his hands. "I told Yusuf I wanted to see how you were, and I did, but I also thought maybe…"

What had Arthur thought? That Eames wanted revenge? That was insane. Eames wasn’t even remotely the type. 

“I thought I deserved it,” he says. “How things were. I didn’t even think. It was all so bad after Mal died, it just seemed like one more thing.” He is too aware of their hands touching. “I should have known you better.”

"Oh, darling," Eames says, "so should I."

Arthur is out of words. He pushes his coffee out of the way and stretches over the table to kiss Eames. He expects it to hurt a little, but it doesn’t. He starts smiling in the middle of the kiss and can’t stop. 

Eames makes a sound into Arthur's mouth, and Arthur realized it's a laugh. Eames's face is wet, though. He's kissing and laughing and crying, all at once.

They're going to abandon the coffee as well, Arthur thinks. But he doesn’t care, and he doesn’t stop, and he’s so happy it’s like something absolutely new.

~

By the time they’ve gotten back out of bed and eaten breakfast and had a shower, it’s late enough that the stores are open. Which is good; Eames’s borrowed clothes are a little worse for the wear. 

Arthur spruces him up as much as he can, strokes Tira’s tail, and says, “It’s nice out; let’s walk.”

"If you don't mind being seen with me," Eames says cheerfully. "Teach me all about Boston, since we seem to be staying." He presses his thumb to Tira's nose very seriously before heading out the door.

Arthur turns to peer down the stairs at Eames as he locks the door. “Yeah, well. I’m used to the apartment,” he says. “And it’s not a bad hub to work from.”

( _Tell him about Dom,_ he remembers, and makes a note to himself that he will.)

When they walk down to the front door, his downstairs neighbor is coming inside with the mail in her hand. 

"Hullo," Eames says.

She looks up at them sharply.

“Morning, Miz Monaghan,” Arthur says. “How are you today?”

“Fine,” she says curtly. 

“Any plans for the day?” Arthur asks politely.

“Well, we had planned on sleeping in,” she says. “Excuse me.” And with that, she speeds down the hall and shuts the heavy door with a thump of wood and a rattle of glass.

Eames laughs. "Is she always like that, or should you have gagged me?"

“Um,” says Arthur. “They’re usually really nice.”

"I'll smooth it over later," Eames says. "My fault, it seems. I wasn't very discreet."

“Yeah, I hope that’s it,” says Arthur, frowning. “If it’s not, I’ll have something to say.”

"Oh, you think she might be upset because I'm not five-foot-two and wearing interesting scarves," Eames says.

“Oh, my god,” Arthur says. “What did she tell you?”

"That she was sorry, mostly," Eames says, seeming to relent.

“Nothing for her to be sorry for,” Arthur says. He lets Eames out the front and locks it behind them. He reaches the bottom of the steps and turns back for Eames before adding, “Except interfering, maybe, but look how that’s turning out.”

"It's what she wanted," Eames says. "I suppose I should be thanking her for that. She could very well have run off and had you all to herself."

Arthur feels safe and anxious all at once. He lets himself feel it, for a change. He takes Eames’s hand and steers him down the sidewalk.

“She’s very lovely,” he says. “Am I done seeing her now?”

"Oh," Eames says. He sounds as if he's caught off-guard. "Right. Now that we're people who talk about things. Do you want to keep seeing her?"

Arthur tries to think about it seriously, instead of brushing it off or pretending neither of them has spoken.

“If it’s allowed,” he says, “then yes, I want to.” He holds on tighter, in case the answer is wrong.

He can see Eames thinking. Then Eames says, "That's all right. I think what's important is that we know what's going on. No more silly mistakes that could have been avoided with a little more talk, hm?"

Arthur feels himself blush and bites down on a smile. “I don’t know,” he says. “Talking. Sounds iffy.”

"Look how well we've done in just a few hours," Eames says. "Oh, this street is lovely. When one isn't on the run at sunrise."

They walk in silence for half a block or so, uneven bricks beneath their feet. Then Arthur says, “So what are we looking for, for you? Something specific, or just anything paisley?”

Eames laughs. "I'm delighted that you know my style, darling. Let's start there, yes. Maybe several outfits. I think I'll be staying a while." He gives Arthur a look that's both confident and hopeful at the same time.

“If you leave I don’t know what I’ll do,” Arthur says. “Come on. I’ll buy out all of Boston’s worst shirts.”

Eames smiles. "You know me all too well. At least now that we've clarified things."

Arthur doesn’t stop walking, but he does take a breath before answering. 

“We haven’t,” he says. “Clarified. Not completely.”

"Ah," Eames says. "What am I missing?"

Arthur sneaks a look over at him. “What do we call it?” he asks. “Us.”

Eames's expression clears. "Is that all? Call it what you like." And then, seemingly dissatisfied with this answer, he adds, "We're dating, I'd say. Going on dates. Is that all right with you?"

Arthur’s mouth quirks up against his will. “Are you my boyfriend, is that it?” he asks.

"Sounds...weird," Eames says. "After all this time. But I'd like that."

“Ah,” says Arthur. He doesn’t expect it to mean anything more than all the something they’ve got already, so he’s surprised when his whole body takes on a little electric tingle. “Good,” he says. “Hey, when do you want to start working? I can line something up tomorrow, if you like.” As he speaks, his eyes meet Eames; he sees the moment that they both realize this means working together, forever, as often as they want.

"Tomorrow," Eames says, his voice strange. A smile tugs at his lips and then he's just shaking his head, laughing, and saying Arthur's name.

Arthur doesn’t care; he grabs Eames by his borrowed collar and pulls him into a kiss right there on the street. Right in view of the duck pond. Right in the middle of the waking world.


End file.
